THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


POEMS 


WILLIAM    WILSON. 


EDITED  BY 


BENSON  J.   LOSSING. 


POUGHKEEPSIE: 
ARCHIBALD    WILSON. 

1869. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1869,  by 

ARCHIBALD  WILSON, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  District  of 
New  York. 


RIVERSIDE,  CAMBRIDGE: 

STEREOTYPED  AND  PRINTED  BY 

H.  0.  HOCOHTOX"  AND  COMPANY. 


<w? 

HT^AH 
/#f 


CONTENTS. 


PAGB 

MEMOIR   .       .       .       .       .       .  "    .       .       .       .  1 

SABBATH  MORNING  IN  THE  WOODS         ...  17 

NATURE'S  WORSHIP 19 

O,  BLESSING  ON  THEE,  LAND 22 

SONG  OF  THE  WESTERN  SETTLER       ....  24 

KING  ROBERT  THE  BRUCE         .....  26 

THE  RARE  OLD  FRIENDS 28 

THE  MITHERLESS  WEAN 30 

BONNIE  MARY 34 

HYMN 36 

MARY 37 

STANZAS  TO  A  LADY 46 

EULALIE 49 

SONG 51 

A  WELCOME  TO  CHRISTOPHER  NOBTH       ...  53 

"  AH  !  NA,  JOHNNIE,  NA  " 56 

RICHARD  COEUR  DE  LION 58 

THE  ISLAND  QUEEN 60 

A  MOURNER'S  DREAM 63 

"  IT  is  WELL  " 65 

THE  FAITHLESS 67 

EPISTLE  TO  LIZZY  LEE      ......  69 

NIGHT  ON  THE  SEA-SHORE 75 

THE  HUSBAND'S  SONG        ......  78 

CONFESSION 80 

MARIAN'S  GRAVE 82 

DIRGE      .        .  84 


904529 


iv  CONTENTS. 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  LIFE 86 

THE  LILY  o'  GLENLYON 88 

ST.  MARY'S  WELL 90 

JEAN  LINN 92 

SONG 94 

SONG  FOR  THE  ANNIVERSARY  OF  THE  BIRTHDAY  OF 

BURNS 96 

WORK  is  PRAYER 99 

AULD  JOHNNY  GRAHAM 101 

A  FIRESIDE  SCENE 104 

THOU  ART  FAR  AWAY 107 

CHURCH-YARD  THOUGHTS         .        .        .        .        .  109 

SCHAMYL Ill 

STANZAS  TO  A  CHILD        .       .       .       .  •     .       .  113 

SCOTLAND 119 

SONG 121 

TOUJOURS  LA  MEME      .......  122 

HYMN 123 

SONG 124 

THE  BEREAVED 125 

FAREWELL 126 

AULD  HAWKIE 128 

A  MIDNIGHT  SKETCH 130 

SONG 132 

SONG 134 

To  ORYNTHIA 136 

THE  REFUGE 138 

THE  HOMESICK 140 

LIZZY  LASS 144 

SONG 145 

SONG 147 

JEANIE  GRAHAM         .......  149 

THE  BEATIFIED  CHILD 151 

LAURA'S  SMILE 153 

0  BLESSING  ON  HER  STAR-LIKE  EEN          .        .        .  155 

SONG 157 

LIZZY  LORRIMER 158 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

To  LIZZY 160 

MY  SOUL  is  EVKK  WITH  THEE 162 

SONG 163 

MY  FATHER'S  GRAVE 164 

THE  CLOSE  .  ....  167 


LIST  OF   SUBSCRIBERS. 


Adriance,  John  P Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Adriance,  Walter Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Ainslie,  Hew Louisville,  Ky 6 

Anderson,  Catherine Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Armitage,  Rt.  Rev.  W.  E .  Milwaukee,  Wis 1 

Arnold,  E.  C Milwaukee,  Wis 5 

Atwill,  Winthrop Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 


Barnard,  Miss  Marg't  A 

Barnard,  George 

Barritt,  William 

Beecher,  Rev.  Henry  W 
Bedell,  Rt.  Rev.  G.  T... 
Beadle,  Dr.  Edward  L. . . 
Beckwith,  Miss  Helen  M. 

Bockee,  John  Jacob 

Bockee,  Dr.  Jacob. 

Bockee,  Phoenix 

Bowne,  James 

Boyd,  John  G 

Bryant,  William  Cullen. 

Bruen,  John.  S 

Buckingham,  S.  M 


B. 

.  Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y . 

.  Chicago,  111 

.New  York. . 


1 

.     1 
1 

.Peekskill,  N.  Y 1 


.  Gambier,  Ohio 

.Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y. 
.Alstead,N.  H 


..  1 

..  1 

..  1 

Brooklyn,  N.Y 1 

Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

North  East,  N.  Y 1 

Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y I 

New  York 1 

Ulster  Co.,  N.  Y 1 

Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 4 


viii  LIST  OF  SUBSCRIBERS. 

COPIES. 

Buckingham,  C.  J Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Butler,  Mrs.  M.  A Hyde  Park,  N.  Y 1 

Buck,  Mrs.  Elizabeth  L. .  Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Burnap,  G.  C Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

C. 

Cady,  Rev.  Philander  K. Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Carpenter,  Leonard Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Carter,  Robert,  &  Bros . .  New  York 1 

Carpenter,  Jacob  B Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Carpenter,  Hon.  Morgan .  Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Carter,  Dr.  N.  M Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Carpenter,  B.  P Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Chambers,  Rt.  Hon.  Wm .  Edinburgh,  Scotland 1 

Cheeswright,  E New  York 1 

Clarkson,  Rt.  Rev.  R.  H.Omaha,  Nebraska  Territory.  1 

Clark,  Rt.  Rev.  Thos.  M .  Providence,  R.I 1 

Coxe,  Rt.  Rev.  A.  C. . .  .Buffalo,  N.  Y 1 

Cooledge,  W.  P New  York 1 

Corlies,  George Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Corning,  Rev.  J.  L Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Corlies,  Jacob." Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Corliss,  C.  K New  York 1 

Cornwell,  George Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Crooke,  John  J New  York 1 

Currie,  Samuel Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

D. 

Davis,  Rev.  Sheldon. . .  .Northford,  Conn 1 

Davies,  Wm.  A Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Davies,  Gen.  T.  L Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Derby,  J.  C New  York 1 

Dibble,  Miss  Julia  B Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Dixon,  Robert Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 


LIST  OF  SUBSCRIBERS.  ix 

COPIES. 

Borland,  S.  G Hastings-on-Hudson,  N.  Y. .  1 

Doughty,  Joseph  C Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Donaldson,  James New  Hamburgh,  N.  Y 1 

Dodge,  Le  Grand Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Dreer,  Ferdinand  J Philadelphia 1 

Duyckinck,  Evert  A New  York 1 

Durand,  J South  Orange,  N.  J 1 

Du  Bois,  Cornelius Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

E. 

Ellsworth,  John  E Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Eldridge,  E.  Q Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Emott,  Hon.  James Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

F. 

Farnum,  M.  L Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Faulkner,  Josiah Wappinggers  Falls,  N.  Y. . .  1 

Ferguson,  David Milwaukee,  Wis 1 

Flint,  M's  Martha  Bockee.Monticello,  N.  Y 2 

Fonda,  W.  C Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Freeman,  Mrs.  L.  S New  Hamburgh,  N.  Y 1 

Frost,  R.  W Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 

Frost,  Henry  S Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 

Frost,  Prof.  S.  T Amenia,  N.  Y 

Frost,  Joseph  G Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 

Frost,  John  G Caspar's  Creek,  N.  Y 

Frazer,  John Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 

G. 

Garland,  Mrs.  M Hyde  Park,  N.  Y 2 

Garrettson,  Miss  M.  E. .  .Rhmebeck,  N.  Y 1 

Gaylord,  G.  R Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Gifford,  N ...Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Gibson,  William New  York 2 


LIST   OF  SUBSCRIBERS. 


Giraud,  Mrs.  J.  P. . . .-. . . Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Gibson,  William Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Goodrich,  Wm.  M Poughkeepsie,  N.Y 1 

Gregg,  Rt.  Rer.  Alex. . .  San  Antonio,  Texas 1 

Grehle,  Edwin. ...   Philadelphia 1 

Greeley,  Horace New  York 1 

Grubb,  John Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Grant,  John  J Po.ughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

H. 

Harper  &  Brothers New  York 4 

Harper,  J.  W.  Jr New  York 1 

Harris,  Joseph  C Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Hageman,  Rev.  Chas.  S. .Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Hasbrouck,  Miss  Laura  T.New  Paltz,  N.Y 1 

Hammond,  Mrs.  Geo. . . .  Wickford,  R.  1 1 

Hagar,  J.  Henry New  York 1 

Hamilton,  Mrs.  Philip. .  .Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Hart,  Mrs.  Elizabeth Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Hayt,  P.  B Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Hale,  P.  C Milwaukee,  Wis 1 

Harvey,  Dr.  A.  B Ponghkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Hinsdale,  Wm.  L Milwaukee,  Wis 1 

Howland,  H. Waterford,  Pa 1 

Hoyt,  Bev.  Sherman Staatsburgh,  N.  Y 1 

Hull,  George  D Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Houghton,  Dr.  Chas.  L.  .Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

I. 

Innis,  Mrs.  George Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Ingersoll,  Mrs.  Gertrude .  Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

J. 

Jewett,  Jacob  B Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Jewett,  Milo  P Milwaukee,  Wis. 1 


LIST   OF  SUBSCRIBERS.  XI 

copras. 

Jewett,  Henry  S Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Johnston,  John Milwaukee,  Wis 1 

K. 

Kemper,  Rt  Kev.  Jacks'n  Delafield,  Wis 1 

Kelly,  Hon.  William Ehinebeck,  N.  Y 2 

Keene,  Rev.  Davii Milwaukee,  Wis 1 

L. 

Langdon,  Mrs.  Cath.  L.  .Hyde  Park,  N.  Y 2 

Lattin,  J.  M Rhinebeck,  N.  Y 1 

Latto,  Thomas  O New  York 1 

Lay,  Rt.  Rev.  H.  C Little  Rock,  Ark 1 

Lenox,  James New  York 2 

Lewis,  John  N Red  Hook,  N.  Y 1 

Lent,  William  B New  York 1 

Lent,  George  B Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Lossing,  Benson  J Dover,  N.  Y 8 

Lossing,  Mrs.  B.  J Dover,  N.  Y 1 

Lossing,  Edwin  J Dover,  N.  Y 1 

Loomis,  John  Mason ....  Chicago,  111 1 

M. 

Malcom,  James  F New  York 2 

Mayer,  Brantz Baltimore,  Md 1 

Mann,  Dr.  James  H Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Martin,  William Milton,  N.  Y 1 

McArthur,  Hon.  Arthur. Milwaukee,  Wis 1 

McAllister,  John  A Philadelphia I 

McLanahann,  Mrs.  A.  M.  New  Hamburgh,  N.  Y 1 

Merritt,  Wm.  H Fishkill-on-Hudson 1 

Miller,  Hon.  A.  G Milwaukee,  Wis 1 

Mitchell,  Alexander Milwaukee,  Wis 1 

Mitchell,  Jane  Eliza Washington  Hollow,  N.  Y . .  1 


xii  LIST  OF  SUBSCRI&EJIS. 

COPDU. 

Moore,  George  H N.  Y.  Historical  Society. ...  5 

Morgan,  William  S Poughkeepsie,  X.  Y 1 

Morse,  Prof-  Saml.  F.  B .  Ponghkeepsie,  X.  Y 1 

Moreau,  John  B Xew  York 1 

Morean,  Charles  C Netf  York 1 

Moreau.  Peter  J Xew  York 1 

Mulford,  Mrs.  D.  H Hyde  Park.  N.  Y 1 

Myers,  Mrs.  M.  J Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

N. 

Xelson,  John  Peter Ponghkeepsie,  X.  Y 1 

North,  R Poughkeepsie,  X.  Y 1 

O. 

O'Kane,  James Xew  York 1 

Osborne,  E.  B Poughkeepsie,  X.  Y 1 

P. 

Palmer,  Robert  X Poughkeepsie,  X.  Y 1 

Palmer,  B.  D Ponghkeepsie,  X.  Y 1 

Palmer,  Hon.  A.  W Amenia,  X.  Y 

Parker,  Dr.  Edward  H .  .Poughkeepsie,  X.  Y 

Parker,  Thomas  E Hyde  Park,  X.  Y 

Pendleton,  Mrs.  Edm.  H.  Xew  York 

Pelton,  G.  P Poughkeepsie,  X.  Y 

Pine,  Dr.  Per  Lee Ponghkeepsie,  X.  Y 

Platt,  Isaac Ponghkeepsie,  X.  Y 

Platt,  Angelina Poughkeepsie,  X.  Y 

Platt.  Samnel  R New  York 

Pooley,  William  I Xew  York 

Pond,  Mrs.  B.  F Washington  Hollow,  N.  Y. .     2 

Putnam,  George  P New  York 1 

Pnrdy,  Rev.  J.  S Hyde  Park,  N.  Y 1 


LIST  OF  SUBSCRIBERS.  xiii 

COPIES. 

Q. 

Quintard,  F.  F New  York 1 

R. 

Randall,  Rt.  Rev.  G.  M. .  Denver,  Colorado 1 

Raynor,  Samuel New  York 1 

Randolph,  A.  D.  F New  York 3 

Raymond,  Rev.  J.  H. . . .  Vassar  College 

Redfield,  J.  S New  York 

Reed,  Henry  A Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 

Rice,  Rev.  C.  D Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 

Rider,  Rev.  Geo.  T Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 

Richmond,  Miss  Sarah  S.  Newark,  N.  J 

Robertson,  Rt  Rev.  C.  F.  St  Louis,  Mo 

Rogers,  Mrs.  Archibald.  .New  York 1 

Rogers,  John  (sculptor) .  .New  York 1 

Roe,  Capt.  Stephen West  Point,  N.  Y 1 

Russell,  Archibald Esopns,  N.  Y 1 

S. 

Sanford,  Robert Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Scribner,  Charles New  York 1 

Shaw,  Henry  W New  York 1 

Sheafe,  Mrs.  J.  F New  Hamburgh,  N.  Y 2 

Slee,  Robert Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 

Smillie,  W.  C Ottawa,  Canada 

Smart,  Miss  Mary Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 

Smead.  Dr.  W. Cincinnati,  O 

Smith,  CoL  James Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 

Smith,  Gen.  A.  B Ponghkeepsie,  N.  Y 

Somerville,  James New  York 

Sonthwick,  Mary  D Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 

Sterling,  George  W Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 

Stuyvesant,  Mrs.  M.  A.  .Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 


xiv  LIST   OF  SUBSCRIBERS. 

COPIES. 

Steele,  Mrs.  M.  C.  C New  York 1 

Street,  Alfred  B Albany,  N.  Y 1 

Stevens,  Henry  H Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Swift,  George  H Amenia  Union,  N.  Y 3 

Swift,  James  H Amenia,  N.  Y 1 

Swan,  C Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Swift,  C.  W Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Swift,  Isaac Hart's  Village,  N.  Y 1 

Synnott,  Rev.  S.  H Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

T. 

Talbot,  Et.  Eev.  J.  C. . . .  Indianapolis,  Ind 1 

Taylor,  Miss  B Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y. . , 1 

Taylor,  Bayard Kennet  Square,  Pa 1 

Taylor,  E.  E Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Taylor,  Hudson Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Thompson,  Hon.  John . .  .Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Thomas,  Eev.  Wm.  B. .  .Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Trowhridge,  N.  C Poughkeepsie,  N.Y 1 

Tuttle,  Et.  Eev.  D.  S. .  .Helena,  Montana 1 

Tucker,  John  F Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

U. 

Uhl,  Stephen Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Underbill,  Miss  Jane Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Upton,  Mrs.  Sarah  B . . . .  Woodbury,  N.  J 1 

V. 

Vail,  Et.  Eev.  Thos.  H . .  Lawrence,  Kan 1 

Varick,  Dr.  Eichard  A.  .Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Varick,  Abraham Poughkeepsie,-  N.  Y 1 

Van  Kleeck,  George Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Van  Kleeck,  George  M . .  Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Van  Kleeck,  W Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 


LIST   OF  SUBSCRIBERS.  XV 

COPIES. 

Van  Kleeck,  Edward ....  Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Van  Kleeck,  E.  M Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Van  Alen,  Jacob New  York 1 

Vassar,  John  Guy Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Vassar,  Matthew .....  ...  Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Vincent,  Rev.  Leonard  M.Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

W. 

Wallace,  Gen.  Lewis Crawfordsville,  Ind. 1 

Warner,  J.  H Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Ward,  Daniel  O Pleasant  Valley,  N.  Y 1 

Watkins,  W.  S Farmdale,  Ky 1 

Warring,  Chas.  B Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Wellstood,  Stephen Edinburgh,  Scotland 5 

Wellstood,  John  Geikie. .  Greenwich,  Conn 1 

Wellstood,  William Metuchin,  N.  J 1 

Wells,  Mrs.  Saml.  R. . .  .New  York 1 

Weeks,  James  H Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Whipple,  Rt.  Rev.  H.  B .  Fairbault,  Minn 1 

Whitton,  W.  H New  York 2 

Whittingham,  Rt.  Rev.  .  W.  R.  Baltimore,  Md 1 

Whitehouse,  Rt.  Rev.  H.  J.  Chicago,  111 1 

Whitall,  Miss  Sarah  R . .  Woodbury,  N.  Y 1 

Wheaton,  Hon.  Charles.  .Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

White,  Isaac  W Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Wheeler,  Rev.  Francis  B. Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 3 

Wheaton,  Homer Lithgow,  N.  Y 1 

Whittier,  John  G Amesbury,  Mass 1 

Winslow,  J.  F Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Winslow,  James Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Willcox,  W.  C Stamford,  Ct 1 

Wilson,  Velina  Bockee . .  Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Wilson,  Oakley  Bockee.  .Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Wilson,  William  Ross . . .  Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 


xvi  LIST  OF  SUBSCRIBERS. 

COPIES. 

Wilson,  Geo.  Sibbald .... Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y ] 

Wilson,  Allan  Grant Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Woodhull,  Azelia  Giraud.Ravenswood,  L.  I 1 

Woodin,  Capt.  W.  R Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Wood,  James  G Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Worrall,  Benjamin Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Wright,  John  Henry. . .  .Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Wright,  Rev.  D .  G Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 

Wright,  James  H New  York 1 

Y. 

Young,  Henry  L Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y 1 


MEMOIR. 


THE  sweetest  flowers  are  not  the  foster- 
children  of  the  garden  only.  The  most  fra 
grant  blossoms  are  not  always  the  most  delight 
some  to  the  eye.  The  student  of  nature  finds 
many  of  them  in  the  shady  margin  of  the  wood, 
or  in  the  sunny  meadow,  where  no  visible  hand 
ever  cultivates  them,  and  where  the  feet  of  the 
lovers  of  pleasure  seldom  stray  in  search  of 
them.  They  are  wild  flowers  wrought  into  ex 
quisite  beauty  and  sweetness,  by  unaided  heat 
and  moisture.  They  bear  no  mark  of  human 
skill.  They  exhale  no  other  perfume  than  that 
which  was  given  them  in  Paradise. 

And  so  it  is  with  the  diviner  nature  of  man, 
that  blossoms  into  expression  in  poetry  and  the 
plastic  and  pictorial  arts.  Its  spontaneous  utter 
ances  by  souls  in  shadow  or  secluded  sunshine, 
are  often  more  perfect  interpreters  of  that  diviner 
nature,  than  are  the  displays  of  the  culture  of 
the  schools.  They  are  wild  flowers  of  the  spirit, 
—  sweet,  modest,  and  unpretending. 

Of  such  flowers    this   little  volume  is  com- 
1 


2  MEMOIR. 

posed.  These,  and  many  others  that  bloomed 
in  the  fancy  and  imagination  of  the  author, 
have  been  gathered  and  preserved  by  the  hand 
of  his  eldest  surviving  son  as  a  filial  duty  ;  and 
it  has  been  my  office  only  to  select  the  most  at 
tractive  and  bind  them  into  a  bouquet.  That 
task  has  been  a  labor  of  love,  for  the  writer  of 
•these  verses  was  a  tried  friend  of  my  youth  and 
of  my  maturer  years. 

.  To- the  friends  of  WILLIAM  WILSON,  no  more 
need  be  said.  To  strangers  I  will  here  tell  all 
the  story  of  his  life  which  they  may  care  to 
know,  or  which  it  is  proper  for  them  to  know. 

At  the  foot  of  the  lofty  Grampian  Hills  in 
Perthshire,  near  the  picturesque  centre  of  Scot 
land,  is  the  village  of  Crieff.  There  William 
"Wilson  was  born  on  Christmas  Day,  in  the  year 
1801.  When  he  was  five  years  of  age,  his 
mother,  a  high-spirited  Scotch  Highlander,  be 
came  a  widow.  Her  husband  had  been  a  gener 
ous  and  unsuspicious  merchant  in  Crieff,  and  by 
the  knavery  of  others  was  made  almost  penniless 
before  his  death.  Sympathizing  friends  offered 
the  widow  pecuniary  aid.  She  steadily  refused 
to  accept  it,  for,  with  innate  independence,  she 
relied  upon  her  own  industry  as  an  expert  spin- 
•ner  for  a  maintenance  for  herself  and  family. 
:She  had  a  hard  and  weary  struggle,  for  she 
often  earned  no  more  than  eight  cents  a  day, 
though  toiling  from  dawn  till  almost  midnight. 


MEMOIR.  3 

Willie  was  the  widow's  best-loved  child.  He 
was  bright,  beautiful,  and  affectionate.  He 
never  entered  a  school  as  a  pupil,  but  his  mother 
taught  him  to  read  before  he  was  six  years  of 
age.  And  long  winter  nights,  when  she  was 
toiling  with  her  wheel  and  distaff,  he  would  sit 
upon  an  old  counterpane  spread  for  him  upon 
the  bare  floor  of  the  cottage,  near  a  poor  turf- 
fire,  without  shoes  or  stockings  (for  he  had 
none),  and  read  to  her  from  the  blessed  Book  of 
Life,  until  his  eyelids  longed  for  sleep.  Then 
she  would  charm  him  by  singing  old  Scottish 
ballads,  in  the  lore  of  which  she  was  deeply 
versed.  She  sang  the  strains  of  her  native  land 
with  unusual  sweetness  and  warmth  of  feeling ; 

O   ' 

and  she  early  imparted  to  the  child  a  love  of 
music,  poetry,  and  romance  which  gave  tone  to 
his  intellectual  life  ever  afterward. 

At  the  age  of  seven  years  Willie  was  employed 
by  a  farmer  not  far  from  his  mother's  cottage, 
in  tending  cows  upon  a  moor.  He  was  delighted, 
for  a  love  of  nature  was  a  dominant  emotion  of 
his  heart.  His  most  attractive  companions  there 
were  the  Bible,  "  The  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  and  a 
tattered  volume  of  "  Scotch  Ballads."  These  he 
would  read  until  his  eyes  were  aweary,  when  he 
would  sing  the  ballad  of  Chevy  Chace,  or  some 
other  stirring  story  in  verse. 

A  few   years  later,  young   Wilson   and   his 


4  MEMOIR. 

mother  were  living  in  the  populous  city  of 
Glasgow,  where  he  was  apprenticed  to  the  busi 
ness  of  folding  and  packing  cloth,  and  putting 
it  into  various  forms  for  a  foreign  market.  He 
became  an  excellent  "lapper,"  as  those  who 
practiced  that  business  were  called  ;  and  he  won 
the  respect  and  confidence  of  his  master  by  ex 
cellent  deportment  at  all  times.  He  spent  his 
leisure  hours  in  reading  and  study  ;  and  his  chief 
place  of  resort  at  such  times  was  the  street  book 
stall  of  a  good-natured  dealer,  where,  standing  by 
the  shelves,  he  read  Young's  "  Night  Thoughts  " 

o  o  o 

twice  through.  He  finally  saved  enough  money, 
after  months  of  self-denial,  to  buy  the  book  for 
fifty  cents.  That  was  the  beginning  of  a  library 
which,  four  years  later,  was  greater  in  the  num 
ber  of  its  volumes  than  that  of  his  parish  minister. 
It  was  at  the  beginning  of  his  apprenticeship  in 
Glasgow  that  he  made  his  first  attempts  to  ac 
quire  the  art  of  writing.  He  was  so  successful 
in  self-culture,  that  at  the  end  of  a  year  he 
acted  as  subordinate  clerk  in  the  establishment. 
Young  Wilson  was  very  fond  of  music  ;  and 
he  was  so  good  a  singer  at  the  age  of  fifteen 
years,  that  he  chanted  a  solo  at  a  grand  concert 
in  Traders'  Hall,  Glasgow.  A  year  later  he  was 
precentor  or  leader  of  a  choir  in  psalmody  in  a 
parish  church  near  that  city.  He  had  already 
composed  several  songs  of  considerable  merit. 


MEMOIR.  0 

but  his  modesty  caused  their  concealment  from 
his  most  intimate  friends. 

At  about  that  time  he  met  Jane,  the  beautiful 
daughter  of  William  M'Kenzie,  of  whom  he 
said,  in  after  years,  "  She  was  the  sweetest, 
purest,  gentlest,  and  kindest  of  her  sex  that  ever 
I  looked  upon,  or  ever  will."  She  was  younger 
than  he,  —  a  child  in  years  and  simplicity  of 
heart.  They  became  fond  of  each  other ;  and 
they  sometimes  spent  a  whole  day  together  in 
a  secluded  little  fir-coppice  in  a  dell  near  the 
suburbs  of  the  city.  There,  on  a  bright  after 
noon,  they  "  plighted  their  troth  "  to  each  other, 
when  each  pulled  a  fir-tap  from  the  tree  that 
shaded  them,  which  they  exchanged  and  kept  as 
a  token  of  their  engagement.  After  that,  "  fir- 
taps  "  was  a  love  watch-word  between  them  that 
puzzled  their  friends ;  and  the  riddle  was  not 
explained  until,  before  he  was  eighteen  years  of 
age,  the  gentle  Jane  became  his  wife.  He  was 
yet  a  cloth-lapper,  but  the  business,  then  declin 
ing,  soon  failed  altogether.  For  eight  months 
during  his  early  married  life,  he  was  without 
regular  employment,  and  felt  the  pinchings  of 
poverty  most  severely.  But  his  love  for  his  wife 
was  such  an  inspiration,  that  he  was  happy  dur 
ing  the  darkest  hours  of  that  night 

Morning  soon  dawned.  The;  young  lapper 
found  employment  in  the  establishment  of  Adam 


6  MEMOIR. 

Reid,  in  Dundee,  whose  son  was  the  editor  of 
the  "  Dundee  Review."  Wilson  worked  for  his 
employer  from  six  o'clock  in  the  morning  until 
ten  o'clock  at  night.  After  which,  while  others 
slept,  he  wrote  prose  and  poetry  for  the  "  Re 
view,"  over  the  signature  of  "  Alpin."  lie  was, 
in  fact,  the  Editor's  chief  assistant.  He  was 
also  a  contributor  to  other  periodicals,  but  al 
ways  over  a  fictitious  signature,  for  then,  as  all 
through  life,  he  disliked  notoriety. 

In  1824  Mr.  Wilson  became  the  conductor  of 
the  Dundee  "  Literary  Olio,"  a  periodical  issued 
fortnightly.  He  yet  continued  lapping,  and  was 
pursuing  that  vocation  late  in  the  following  year 
when  a  Danish  author,  named  Feldburg,  travel 
ling  in  Scotland,  tarried  a  little  while  in  Dundee. 
Charmed  by  some  of  Wilson's  poetry  in  the 
"  Dundee  Magazine,"  the  Dane  visited  the  au 
thor,  and  promised  to  do  what  he  might  to  pro 
cure  for  him  a  more  lucrative  employment.  At 
Edinburgh  he  commended  him  to  Sir  John 
Sinclair  and  other  leading  citizens,  as  a  young 
man  of  genius,  worthy  of  their  patronage.  Wil 
son  was  invited  to  the  Scottish  metropolis,  and 
was  a  guest  at  the  table  of  men  of  note  there, 
who  assisted  him  in  starting  the  business  of  a 
coal  commission-merchant.  The  eminent  and 
venerable  Mrs.  Grant,  of  Laggan  (better  known 
in  this  country  by  her  charming  volume  of 


MEMOIR.  7 

ante-revolutionary  reminiscences  entitled  "Me 
moirs  of  an  American  Lady  "),  became  deeply 
interested  in  him,  and  was  his  warm  friend  as 
long  as  she  lived. 

Mr.  Wilson  formed  a  partnership  with  his 
younger  brother.  Business  thrived  for  a  while. 
Their  customers  were  many  and  influential. 
Robert  Chambers,  his  early  and  life-long  friend, 
said  in  a  letter  to  Mr.  Wilson's  eldest  son,  writ 
ten  not  long  ago :  "  A  man  of  very  great  note, 
Sir  William  Hamilton,  was  a  fast  friend  of  the 
young  coal-merchant.  There  was,  at  this  time, 
something  very  engaging  in  his  appearance  :  a 
fair  open  countenance,  ruddy  with  the  bloom  of 
health;  manners  soft  and  pleasing;  language 
and  elocution  free  from  all  vulgarity." 

It  was  now  the  beginning  of  the  year  1826. 
Luminous  beyond  all  precedent  then  seemed  to 
him  the  orb  of  hope.  It  was  suddenly  eclipsed. 
His  young  wife,  who  was  his  idol  and  the  mother 
of  his  four  children,  died.  At  her  bedside, 
while  watching  without  intermission  and  trem 
bling  with  anxiety,  and  by  her  lifeless  body  when 
hope  was  extinguished,  he  wrote  the  touching 
poem  in  this  volume  entitled  "  Mary,"  a  name 
by  which  he  often  addressed  her  in  verse.  Un 
der  that  heavy  blow  his  health  and  spirits  were 
crushed  for  a  season.  At  length  he  sought  and 
found  relief  from  wearing  sorrow  in  his  desolated 


8  MEMOIR. 

household,  in  composition.  Prose  and  verse 
flowed  from  his  pen  in  full  measure.  His  songs 
were  popular ;  and  his  musical  compositions  were 
admired.  One  of  his  songs  was  sung  repeatedly 
with  applause,  in  the  theatre  at  Edinburgh,  by 
one  of  the  most  eminent  of  the  feminine  singers 
of  the  time.  He  was  an  ever-welcome  con 
tributor  to  the  "  Edinburgh  Literary  Journal," 
and  other  periodicals  in  Scotland  and  in  Lon 
don  ;  and  he  enjoyed  the  friendship  and  esteem 
of  many  intellectual  men  of  that  day. 

The  death  of  his  wife  gave  a  soberer  tone  to 
Mr.  Wilson's  after-life.  The  memory  of  her 
perfections,  linked  with  a  deep  religious  senti 
ment  which  pervaded  his  whole  nature,  inspired 
much  of  his  verse.  Time,  the  great  healer, 
closed  the  wounds  made  by  sharp  sorrow,  and 
several  years  after  his  bereavement,  the  happi 
ness  of  his  earlier  life  was  renewed  by  marriage 
with  Miss  Jane  Sibbald,  a  beautiful  and  accom 
plished  young  woman,  and  member  of  one  of 
the  oldest  families  in  the  County  of  Roxburg. 
She  was  a  true  mother  to  his  "  mitherless 
bairns,"  and  in  character,  the  reverse  of  the  one 
hinted  at  in  his  poem  entitled  "  The  Mitherless 
"Wean."  A  score  of  years  after  this  marriage, 
he  said,  in  a  lecture  on  "  The  Philosophy  of 
Home,"  given  before  a  literary  association  in  this 
country  :  "  Were  it  fitting,  I  could  tell  you  of  a 


MEMOIR.  9 

step-mother,  who  for  twenty  years  has  filled  that 
ungracious  and  much  maligned  duty,  whose  un- 
deviating  aim  has  been  to  screen,  qualify,  and  ex 
plain  away  the  faults  and  follies  of  her  step-chil 
dren,  and  who,  in  the  unselfish  nobility  of  her 
nature,  has  never  once  appeared  to  be  conscious 
which  portion  of  the  family  was  hers  and  which 
that  of  her  predecessor." 

Mr.  Wilson  continued  his  mercantile  business 
and  literary  recreation,  in  Edinburgh,  until  De 
cember,  1833,  when  he  left  his  home  in  Mel 
ville  Place,  with  a  moderate  capital,  and  emi 
grated  to  the  United  States.  He  passed  the  re 
mainder  of  the -winter,  after  his  arrival,  in  the 
city  of  New  York,  and  in  the  spring  of  1834, 
he  went  into  the  interior  of  Pennsylvania  with 
the  intention  of  investing  his  capital  in  land  or 
merchandise  there.  His  purpose  was  changed 
when  his  family  arrived  in  New  York  in  July  ; 
and  at  the  close  of  that  month  he  went  with 
them  to  the  village  of  Poughkeepsie,  on  the  bank 
of  the  Hudson  River,  where  he  established  a 
bookstore  and  circulating  library.  From  that 
time  until  within  a  few  weeks  of  his  death,  on 
the  25th  of  August,  1860,  he  was  engaged  in  the 
book  trade  in  Poughkeepsie  as  publisher,  binder, 
and  seller,  a  part  of  the  time  in  partnership  with 
the  late  Paraclete  Potter  (brother  of  the  bish 
op),  but  a  greater  portion  of  the  time  alone. 


10  MEMOIR. 

Mr.  AVilson  was  a  most  attentive  and  laborious 
business  man,  yet  he  found  time  to  write  much 
and  well  for  the  periodicals  of  Great  Britain  and 
this  country.  He  was  always  an  acceptable  con 
tributor  to  the  Edinburgh  "  Literary  Journal," 
"  Chambers'  Journal,"  and  others.  During  his 
earlier  residence  in  Poughkeepsie,  he  wrote 
some  excellent  poems  for  "  Tait's  Magazine,"  over 
his  old  signature  of  "  Alpin."  In  a  collection  of 
Scottish  poetry,  published  in  Glasgow  in  1844, 
and  another  collection,  in  six  volumes,  published 
in  Edinburgh  in  1857,  there  are  several  poems 
from  his  pen  which  display  great  delicacy  of 
sentiment,  vigor  of  thought,  and  artistic  con 
struction. 

Mr.  Wilson  seldom  published  his  compositions 
over  his  own  name  ;  and  when,  many  years  ago, 
his  eldest  son  proposed  the  issuing  of  a  collection 
of  his  poems  in  a  volume,  he  said,  "  Pray,  think 
no  more  about  it.  I  have  no  objection  to  be 
quizzed  by  a  few  private  friends  who  may  affect 
to  admire  my  rubbish,  but  I  have  no  wish  to  be 
the  target  of  the  public.  I  know,  moreover, 
that  although  you  might  like  to  hear  me  sing 
to  half  a  dozen  friends  at  your  own  fireside  and 
mine,  it  does  not  follow  that  you  would  equally 
relish  an  exhibition  of  my  vocality  in  Tripler 
Hall."  Later,  his  modest  scruples  were  par 
tially  overcome  ;  and  a  few  months  before  his 


MEMOIR.  1 1 

death,  he  told  me  that  he  had  thought  of  mak 
ing  a  selection  of  his  poems  for  publication  in  a 
volume.  That  willingness  is  his  son's  warrant 
for  issuing  this  little  book. 

Mr.  Wilson's  writings  for  the  press  of  this 
country  —  among  them  the  "  New  York  Even 
ing  Post,"  "  The  Albion,"  «  The  Knickerbocker 
Magazine,"  and  others  —  bore  the  assumed  name 
of  "  Allan  Grant."  Over  that  signature  he 
made  many  contributions  to  "  The  Church  Rec 
ord,"  edited  and  published  in  Chicago  by  his 
younger  son.  These  were  mostly  poetic  ef 
fusions.  Among  his  prose  contributions  to  that 
periodical  were  a  series  of  extracts  from  the 
"  Diary  and  Correspondence  of  Samuel  Pepys," 
a  courtier  of  the  times  of  the  later  Stuarts. 
These  he  introduced  by  a  racy  general  preface 
and  charming  interweaving  paragraphs  from  his 
own  pen,  and  the  papers  were  signed  "  "W.  "W." 
He  continued  these  contributions  until  a  short 
time  before  his  death.  He  was  passionately 
fond  of  music,  and  left  several  compositions  of 
considerable  merit.  A  few  months  before  his 
death  he  composed  an  air  of  great  beauty  to  a 
poem  by  his  friend  Hew  Ainslee,  the  venerable 
Scotch  poet,  who  survives  him. 

True,  just,  and  honorable  in  all  his  dealings, 
a  warm  and  active  friend  of  the  deserving,  and 
liberal  to  those  in  need  and  in  the  promotion  of 


12  MEMOIR. 

public  benefactions,  so  far  as  a  prudent  man 
agement  of  his  affairs  would  allow,  Mr.  Wilson 
was  highly  esteemed  by  all  as  an  excellent  citi 
zen.  Fluent  in  conversation,  well  educated 
possessed  of  an  extensive  and  critical  knowl 
edge  of  books  and  their  authors,  he  was  a  most 
agreeable  and  instructive  companion  for  intelli 
gent  men.  Retiring  and  unobtrusive,  he  was 
seldom  seen  in  social  life  excepting  in  business 
relations,  or  as  a  worshipper  in  the  temple  on 
the  Sabbath  day.  Only  a  few  knew  his  real 
moral  and  intellectual  worth.  The  few  who  ap 
preciated  him,  and  shared  his  confidence  and 
friendship,  remember  with  pleasure  his  genial 
good-nature,  the  exuberance  of  his  spirits,  his 
fund  of  anecdote,  and  his  pure  and  delightful 
social  qualities  as  exhibited  under  his  own  roof. 
In  his  family  he  was  a  strict  disciplinarian, 
according  to  old  country  notions ;  but  he  was 
ever  tender,  affectionate,  kind,  generous,  and 
winning.  And  had  he  published  his  collection 
of  poems  when  he  contemplated  it,  he  might 
have  truthfully  dedicated  it  to  his  children  in 
the  following  words,  which  he  wrote  for  his 
friend,  John  Aitken,  Editor  of  the  "  London 
Cabinet,"  as  the  dedication  to  his  children  of 
one  of  the  volumes  of  that  publication  :  — 

Yes,  my  young  darlings,  since  my  task  is  done, 
Again  I'll  mingle  in  your  freaks  and  fun  ; 


MEMOIR.  13 

Be  glad,  be  gay,  be  thoughtless  if  I  can, 
And  merge  the  busy  worldling  in  the  man. 

Not  the  stiff  pedagogue,  with  brow  severe, 
Authoritative  air  and  look  austere, 
But  the  fond  sire  with  feelings  long  repress'd, 
Eager  to  bless,  as  eager  to  be  bless'd, 
Longing  in  home's  dear  sanctuary  to  find 
The  smiling  lips,  the  embrace,  the  kiss  so  kind, 
The  cloudless  brow,  the  bearing  frank  and  free, 
The  gladdening  shout  of  merriment  and  glee, 
And  all  the  luxury  which  boisterous  mirth 
Scattered,  erewhile,  around  our  social  hearth. 

Remember  ye,  my  sweet  ones,  with  what  "  pomp 

And  circumstance  "  of  glee  we  used  to  romp 

From  room  to  room,  o'er  tables,  stools,  and  chairs, 

O'er  turning  household  gods  —  now  up  the  stairs, 

Now  under  sofas,  now  in  corners  hiding, 

Now  in,  now  out,  now  round  the  garden  gliding  1 

Remember  ye  —  when  under  books  and  toys 

The  table  groaned,  and  evening's  tranquil  joys 

Soothed  your  excited  spirits  to  repose  — 

How,  blithe  as  larks,  at  peep  of  dawn  ye  rose  ? 

Pleased  every  moment,  mirthful  every  hour, 

As  bees  love  sunshine,  or  as  ducks  the  shower, 

No  ills  annoyed  you,  pleasures  never  pall'd, 

Care  ne'er  corroded,  nor  repinings  gall'd, 

But  like  blithe  birds,  from  clime  to  clime  that  fly, 

Each  change  brought  blossoms  and  a  cloudless  sky,  — 

"But  now  Papa's  grown  strange,  and  will  not  speak, 

Nor  play  at  blind-man's  buff,  nor  hide-and-seek ; 

Tell  no  more  stories  ere  we  go  to  bed, 

Nor  kiss  us  when  our  evening  prayers  are  said, 

But  still,  with  thoughtful  look  and  brow  of  gloom, 


14  MEMOIR. 

He  stalks  in  silence  to  his  study  room, 
Xor  ever  seeks  our  evening  sports  to  share  ; 
Why,  what  can  dear  Papa  be  doing  there  ?  " 

Such  were  the  thoughts  which  oft  in  tears  gush'd  forth, 
Amid  the  pauses  of  your  infant  mirth, 
And  dimmed  the  lustre  of  your  bright  blue  eyes  — 
As  wandering  clouds  obscure  the  moonlit  skies, 
Making  their  misty  mellowness  even  more 
Soul-soothing  than  the  glorious  light  before. 

'Mid  laureled  literature's  elysian  bowers, 
I've  been  a-roaming,  culling  fadeless  flowers, 
And  these  collected  treasures  at  your  feet 
I  lay,  ye  beautiful !     "  Sweets  to  the  sweet." 

Yet  all  too  soon  I  dedicate  to  you 
Flowers  of  such  rich  perfume  and  varied  hue, 
O'er  which  the  deathless  fire  of  genius  breathed ; 
And  all  too  soon  this  garland  I  have  wreathed, 
To  win  me  favor  in  your  infant  eyes ; 
Though  years  may  come  when  ye  will  fondly  prize 
Affection's  fond  memorials,  given  to  prove 
The  doating  fondness  of  a  father's  love ; 
Love,  full  as  ocean's  waters,  firm  as  faith, 
Wide  as  the  universe,  and  strong  as  death. 

Such,  in  brief  outline,  is  a  picture  of  the  more 
salient  points  in  the  life  and  character  of  the 
author  of  this  volume  of  poems.  It  is  but  the 
familiar  illustration  of  those  of  a  thousand  others 
who  have  soared  up  from  the  shadows  of  poverty 
and  social  obscurity  on  the  wings  of  their  own 


MEMOIR.  15 

inherent  excellencies,  into  the  upper  light  and 
air  of  usefulness,  honor,  and  distinction.  He 
experienced,  in  its  broadest  sense,  as  others  have 
done,  the  truth  of  the  assurance  of  the  sacred 
Proverbialist,  who  said,  "  Seest  thou  a  man  dil 
igent  in  his  business?  he  shall  stand  before 
kings ;  he  shall  not  stand  before  mean  men." 

B.  J.  L. 
THE  RIDGE,  DOVER,  N.  Y..  1869. 


POEMS. 


SABBATH  MORNING  IX  THE   WOODS. 

O  BLESSED  morn !  whose  ruddy  beam 
Of  gladness  mantles  fount  and  stream, 
And  over  all  created  things 
A  golden  robe  of  glory  flings. 

On  every  tendril,  leaf,  and  spray, 

A  diamond  glistens  in  the  ray, 

And  from  a  thousand  throats  a  shout 

Of  adoration  gushes  out,  — 

A  glad  but  sweet  preclusive  psalm 

Which  breaks  the  hallowed  morning's  calm. 

Each  wimpling  brook,  each  winding  rill, 
That  sings  and  murmurs  on  at  will, 
Seems  vocal  with  the  blest  refrain, — 
"  The  Lord  has  come  to  life  again ! " 

And  from  each  wild-flower  on  the  wold, 
In  purple,  sapphire,  snow,  or  gold, 
Pink,  amethyst,  or  azure  hue, 
Beauteous  of  tint  and  bright  with  dew, 


18      SABBATH  MORNING  IN   THE    WOODS. 

There  breathes  an  incense  off'ring,  borne 
Upon  the  wakening  breeze  of  morn 
To  the  Creator,  all  divine !  — 
Meet  sacrifice  for  such  a  shrine. 

Far  clown  those  lofty  forest  aisles, 
Where  twilight's  solemn  hush  prevails, 
The  wind  its  balmy  censer  swings 
Like  odors  from  an  angel's  wings, 
Who,  passing  swift  to  earth,  had  riven 
Their  fragrance  from  the  bovvers  of  toeaven. 

And  through  each  sylvan  tangled  hall 
Where  slanting  bars  of  sunlight  fall, 
Faint  sounds  of  hallelujahs  sweet 
The  tranced  ear  would  seem  to  greet, 
As  if  the  holy  seraphim 
Were  choiring  here  their  matin  hymn. 

God  of  all  nature !  here  I  feel 

Thy  awful  presence,  as  I  kneel 

In  humble,  heart-abasement  meet, 

Thus  lowly  at  Thy  mercy  seat ; 

And  while  I  tremble  I  adore 

(Like  him  by  Bethel's  stone  of  yore), 

For  this  Thy  vouchsafed  presence  given 

Hath  made  this  place  the  gate  of  heaven. 


NATURE'S  WORSHIP. 

WHAT  means  this  sleepless  longing 
For  the  open  sapphire  sky  ? 

Those  restless  wishes  thronging, 
That  like  falcon  I  might  fly 
To  the  mountains  towering  high  ? 

Away  from  reeking  alleys, 

With  their  Swelt'ring  heat  and  din, 

To  the  blessed  hills  and  valleys, 
Where,  assoiled  from  mortal  sin, 
Peace  of  spirit  I  might  win. 

I  loathe  the  steaming  city, 
With  its  mis'ries  manifold, 

And  its  ever  during  ditty, 

"  Give  us  gold  —  O,  give  us  gold ! 
Heap'd,  unmeasur'd,  and  untold." 

There  the  hollow  pomp  of  fashion, 
With  its  apish  airs  of  pride, 

And  the  baleful  fire  of  passion, 
Flinging  ruin  far  and  wide, 
Ileav'n  from  the  hearth  doth  hide. 


20  NATURES    WORSHIP. 

r 

These  have  soil'd  the  robes  of  brightness, 
That  the  soul  in  Eden  wore, 

And  have  marr'd  the  spirit's  lightness, 
From  the  ancient  days  of  yore  — 
And  will  mar  it  evermore^ 

From  the  rich  man's  piHar'd  temple, 
"With  its  carv'd  and  fretted  roof. 

And  cushion'd  stalls  so  ample, 
The  poor  man  must  stand  aloof, 
Or  endure  pride's  stern  reproof. 

My  spirit  shuns  communion 
With  the  robe-bedizen'd  crowd, 

That  in  freezing  formal  union, 
And  with  aspect  cold  and  proud, 
Mumble  orisons  aloud. 

But  roams  where  brooks  are  gliding 
Through  the  deep  embow'ring  dells, 

And  violets  are  hiding, 

'Neath  the  laden  fox-glove  bells,-, 
Where  the  wild  bees' -bugle  swells. 

Seeks  the  old  woods'  leafy  ceiling, 
With  their  cloister'd  vistas  dim, 

When  summer  winds  are  pealing 
Forth  their  incense-breathing  hymn 
To  the  list'ning  seraphim. 


NATURES    WORSHIP.  21 

There  in  fervor,  lowly  kneeling 
On  the  consecrated  sod, 

In  silent  prayer  appealing, 
From  my  anchorite  abode, 
I  would  humbly  worship  God. 


O,  BLESSING  ON  THEE,  LAND! 

O,  BLESSING  on  thee,  land 

Of  love  and  minstrel  song; 
For  freedom  found  a  dwelling-place 

Thy  mountain  cliffs  among! 
'And  still  she  loves  to  roam 

Among  thy  heath-clad  hills, 
And  blend  her  wild-wood  harp's  sweet  strain 

With  the  voice  of  mountain  rills. 

Her  song  is  on  the  gale, 

Her  step  upon  the  wold ; 
And  morning  diamonds  brightly  gem 

Her  braided  locks  of  gold. 
Far  up  the  pine-wood  glen, 

Her.  sylph-like  form  is  seen, 
By  hunter  in  the  hazy  dawn, 

Or  wandering  bard  at  e'en. 

My  own  dear  native  home, 

The  birthplace  of  the  brave, 
0,  never  may  thy  soil  be  trod 

By  tyrant  or  by  slave  ! 


0,  BLESSING    ON   THEE,  LAM> .' 

Then,  blessing  on  thee,  land 
Of  love  and  minstrel  song ; 

For  freedom  found  a  dwelling-place 
Thy  mountain  cliffs  among ! 


SONG   OF  THE  WESTERN  SETTLER. 

WHY  did  I  leave  fair  Branksome's  towers, 

Why  did  I  leave  sweet  Teviot  glen, 
Its  daisied  banks  and  hazel  bowers, 

Kind  collie,  plaid,  and  blithe  sheep-pen  ? 
0,  there  is  not  a  rushy  den, 

Clear  wimpling  burn,  or  brier  brake, 
But  in  my  bosom  stirs  a  train 

Of  mournful  thoughts  that  make  it  ache. 

Oft,  dreams  of  Albion's  sea-bound  isle 

Steal  o'er  my  slumber  with  their  balm  ; 
I  hear  a  song,  I  meet  a  smile, 

At  bughting  in  the  gloaming-calm. 
Anon  the  reverential  psalm, 

From  straw-thatched  cot,  will  fancy  hear, 
And  kneeling  low  with  joined  palm, 

Breathe  the  heart-uttered  prayer  sincere. 

Then  round  me  gathered  faces  dear, 
That  kindly  words  of  welcome  speak ; 

My  father's  smile  —  the  glistening  tear 
Of  gladness  on  my  mother's  cheek. 


KONG    OF   THE    WESTERN  SETTLER.         25 

One  form  my  wandering  eye  doth  seek, 
My  plighted  Marion  —  "  nearest,  best, 

Come  hither  with  those  looks  so  meek, 
And  let  me  fold  thee  to  my  breast." 

But  morning  comes,  and  with  it  wake 
My  bleeding  sorrows  fresh  again, 

And  I  must  to  my  toil  betake, 
Beside  that  fatal  marshy  fen. 


Could  I  again  in  Teviot  vale 

Wander  when  gloaming  hour  was  near, 
And  hearken  to  the  cushat's  wail, 

Or  blackbird  piping  to  his  dear, 
Or  listen'd  with  delighted  ear 

The  soaring  laverock's  vesper  song, 
Blent  with  the  lintie's  warblings  clear, 

That  pipes  the  yellow  broom  among, — 

Then  light  of  heart  and  lithe  of  limb, 

I'd  belt  my  plaid  and  grasp  my  kent, 
And  by  the  holy  twilight  dim, 

Would  hie  me  to  the  upland  bent. 
There  with  the  star-gemm'd  firmament 

Above  me  for  my  temple  dome, 
I'd  kneel  and  ask  of  heaven  —  content  — 

A  shepherd's  lot  and  Scottish  home. 


KING   ROBERT   THE  BRUCE. 

HE  sat  alone   on   a  mossy  cairn, 

And  leant  on  his  bloody  brand, 
While  his  look  grew  vengeful,  dark,  and  stern, 

With  thoughts  of  his  injured  land. 
Where  is  the  plaided  warrior  host 

He  marshal'd  at  morning  tide  ? 
On  the  battle-field  with  banner  lost, 

They  are  slumbering  side  by  side! 
And  he  like  a  hunted  felon  flies 

To  the  hills  of  his  native  home, 
In  mountain  shepherd's  lowly  guise, 

Through  the  wilderness  to  roam. 

On  steep  Benvoirlich's  storm-beaten  crest, 

The  eagle  is  monarch  there  ; 
And  low  in  the  heathy  vale  at  rest, 

The  red  deer  couch  in  their  lair. 
The  hill-fox  hies  to  his  craggy  den, 

The  bittern  to  sedgy  brake, 
But  the  Bruce  must  shun  the  haunts  of  men, 

An  outcast  for  Scotland's  sake. 
What  kingly  daring  and  might  could  dare, 

That  good  King  Robert  did  he  ; 
Now  falls  his  grief  on  the  desert  air 

For  the  knight  of  Ellerslie : 


KING  ROBERT   THE   BRUCE.  27 

"  0,  for  the  sword  of  the  Wallace  now, 

With  its  lightning  flash  of  doom  ! 
When  the  battle  flush  was  on  his  brow 

And  victory  on  his  plume ! 
When  like  the  whirlwind's  wrathful  sweep, 

He  rushed  to  the  deadly  fray, 
While  the  foe  fell  round  him  heap  on  heap, 

As  the  mower  swaths  the  hay. 
And  back  like  frighten'd  deer  they  fled, 

Each  hurrying  rank  on  rank, 
As  the  stern  avenger's  angry  blade 

Gleamed  red  on  rear  and  flank. 

"Then  rung  fair  Scotland's  stormy  hurra, 

As  she  waved  her  bonnet  blue, 
While  o'er  her  warrior's  thick  array 

Her  proud  lion-banner  flew. 
And  that  lion-banner  yet  shall  stream 

Uncheck'cl  from  strand  to  strand, 
And  the  broad  claymore  'mid  victory  gleam 

In  each  plaided  hero's  hand ! 
Then  from  her  trance  shall  Freedom  wake, 

And  her  trumpet  blast  be  blown, 
Till  haughty  English  Edward  quake 

On  his  loftv  tyrant  throne." 


THE  RARE  OLD  FRIENDS. 

THE  rare  old  friends,  the  dear  old  friends, 

How  fast  they  pass  away! 
Fast  as  the  vernal  blossoms'  showers 

Fall  from  the  leafy  spray. 

And  in  their  dark  and  silent  homes 

We  lay  them,  one  by  one, 
Each  like  a  planet  from  our  hjeaven, 

Forever  quenched  and  gone. 

The  rare  old  friends,  the  dear  old  friends, 

The  trusted  and  the  true ; 
How  wane  they  from  our  weeping  sight, 

As  dries  the  summer  dew. 

We  miss  them  on  the  crowded  mart, 

We  miss  them  in  the  hall, 
And  by  the  cheerful  ingleside  — 

0,  saddest  blank  of  all. 

To  gaze  into  the  frozen  eye 
From  which  the  light  is  gone, 

To  speak,  and  hear  no  loving  voice 
Replying  to  our  own ; 


THE  RARE  OLD  FRIENDS.  29 

To  strain  them  to  our  bleeding  heart, 

As  if  their  flight  to  stay, 
And  0,  the  cruel  thought  to   know, — 

We  clasp  but  lifeless  clay. 

So  stealeth  night  upon  our  sky ; 

Yet  'mid  its  pall-like  gloom, 
Faith  points,  with  angel  smile,  to  worlds 

Of  bliss  beyond  the  tomb. 

Tli en  let  them  pass,  those  dear  old  friends, 

As  autumn's  honors  fall, 
They  soon  shall  call  us  hence,  and  we 

Shall  answer  to  their  call. 

"Why  linger  at  the  banquet  board 

When  all  the  guests  are  flown? 
No !  let  us  seek  that  land  of  love 

Where  all  the  loved  are  gone. 


THE  MITHERLESS  WEAN. 

IF  ye  ever  rejoic'd  in   the    sweets  o'  a   hame, 
If  ye    still    have    a    mither    to   luve  an'  to 

bless ; 

O,  pity,  kind  stranger,    a   puir  beggar  wean 
That  has  nae  hame    to  seek,  an'  is   mither- 

less ! 

O,  pity,  kind  stranger,  for  ance  like  thee 
I  was  ane  o'  a  happy  fatnilie! 

I'  the   morning   we   rais'd  wi'  the  loud    liltin' 

lark, 
When    he    dried    his   dewy   wings    in    the 

young  sunbeam ; 
An'  wi'  hearts  fu'  o'  luve  sent  oui;  praise    up 

to  Heaven 
An'  our  prayers  for  what  to  him  but  might 

seem. 

An'  she  that's  awa'  —  wi'  an  uplifted  ee  — 
Sought  the  blessing  o'  the    Lord    on   our    in- 

O  O 

dustrie. 

A'  day  lang  we  toil'd,  but  we  never  repined, 
Our  dear  mither  lo'ed  us,  our  father  ay  was 
kind, 


THE  M1THERLESS    WEAN.  31 

An'  our  hearts  then  a'  pure,  were   as  licht  as 

the   down 

O'  the  thistle,  when    it    frolics  wi'  the  way 
ward  wind  ; 

Whate'er    Heaven    sent  we  were  gladsome  to 
see, 

An'  we  ne'er  thoct  our  day's  dawk  a  drudgerie. 

An'  whan  gloamin'  cam'  on,  nicht's  dark  har 
binger, 

0,    then    cam    the     hours    o'   our    innocent 
mirth 

When    we  gather'd    wi'    joy   'neath   our   cot's 

lowly  roof, 
An'  wi'  faces  a'  smilin'  encircled  the  hearth, 

An'  beguil'd   the    e'en  wi'  tales   o'  the    deeds 
that  wont  to  be, 

Or  wi'  sangs  o'  our  kintra's  auld  minstrelsie. 

An'  0,  it  was   sweet   when    the   nicht   it  was 

gane, 

To  raise  high  the  holy  Psalmodie,      » 
An'   to   read    in    the    book,   the    luve    o'  our 

God, 

An'  to  kneel  to  Him  rev'rentlie  : 
An'  to  bless  his  name,  wha    has    sworn  to  be 
The  puir  man's  God  continuallie. 


32  THE  MITHERLESS    WEAN. 

But  wae's  my  sad  heart!  the  bricht  days  are 

gane, 
An'    a    laii£   nicht  o'  sadness    an'  sorrow  is 

O 

nigh, 
For  the    finger   o'  death    touch'd   the   face    o' 

my  mither 

An'  her  well-spring  o'  life  dribbled  dry: 
An'  she  slippit  awa'  like  the  mists  that  ye  see 
Stealin'  upward  to  heaven  sae  bonnilie. 

An'  ere  spring  had  spread  its  green  o'er  her 

grave, 

An  unco  woman  sat  in  her  auld  chair  — 
His   new   wife,  father  ca'd  her — an'  he    said 

she  wad  have 
A   mither's   hive   for   us,   an'  a   kind   mith- 

er's  care  ;        4 

O,  how  could  she  e'er  be  a  mither  to  me 
That  spake  o'  the  dead  sae  scornfullie. — 

Fu'   soon   on   our    stools   her   bairns   were    a' 

*  planted 

Round  the  ingle  that  erst  burnt  sa  cheerilie, 
An'  frae  name  we  were  driven  —  an'  the  door 

barr'd  against  us 

To  drift  through  a  wide  warld  wearily. 
An'  O,    sad    are    the    days  that   the  wretched 

maun  dree 
Wha  wander  through  the  warld  friendlesslie. 


THE  M1THERLESS    WEAN.  33 

If  ye  ever  rejoiced  in  the  sweets  o'  a  hame, 
If  ye   still   ha'e    a    mither    to   love   an'    to 

bless, 

0,  pity,  kind  stranger,  a  puir  beggar  wean 
That  has  nae  hame  to  seek,  an'  is    mither- 

less. 

0,  pity,  kind  stranger,  an'  frae  heaven  hie 
The  God  o'  the  puir  will   bless  thy  charitie. 


BONNIE   MARY. 

the  sun  gaes  doun,  when  the  sun  gaes 

doun, 
I'll    meet   thee,  bonnie    Mary,  when    the    sun 

gaes  doun  ; 
I'll  row  my  apron  up,  and  I'll  leave  the  reeky 

town, 
And  meet  thee   by  the  burnie  when    the    sun 

gaes  doun. 

By  the  burnie  there's  a  bower,  we  will  gently 

lean  us  there, 

An'  forget  in  ither's  arms  every  earthly  care, 
For    the    chiefest    of  my  joys    in    this   weary 

mortal  roun' 
Is  the  burnside  wi'  Mary,  when  the  sun  gaes 

doun. 

When  the  sun  gaes  doun,  etc. 

There's  the  ruined  castle  tower  on  the  distant 

steep  appears, 
Like   a   hoary  auld  warrior  faded  with  years  ; 


BONNIE  MARY.  35 

An     the    burnic    stealin'  by  wi'  a    fairy  silver 

soun' 
Will    soothe    us    wi'  its  music  when   the  sun 

gaes  doun. 

When  the  sun  gaes  doun,  etc. 

The  burnie  is  sweet  when  the   dew  is  on  the 

flower, 

But  'tis  like  a  little  heaven  at  the  trystin'  hour. 
An'  with  pity  I  would  look   on  the  king  who 

wears  the  crown 
When  wi'  thee   by  the   burnie,  when   the  sun 

gaes  doun. 

When  the  sun  gaes  doun,  etc. 

When  the  sun  gaes  doun,  when  the  sun  gaes 

doun, 
I'll  meet   thee   by   the   burnie,  when   the   sun 

gaes   down  ; 
Come  in  thy  petticoatie,  and  thy  little  drugget 

gown, 
An'   I'll   meet   thee,   bonnie   Mary,   when    the 

sun  gaes  doun. 


HYMN. 

0  THOU  who  art  beyond  the  praise 
Of  holy  minist'ring  seraphim, 

With  trembling  joy  may  I  not  raise 
To  Thee  my  grateful,  lowly  theme  ? 

Yes !  leprosied  all  o'er  with  sin, 
And  worm  of  dust  although  I  be, 

Omnipotent  and  Holy  One, 

I  lift  my  soul  in  praise  to  Thee. 

1  bless  Thee  for  the  love  which  tells 
Of  Him  that  for  the  guilty  died ; 

I  bless  Thee  for  the  stream  which  wells 
In  healthful  murmurs  from  His  side. 

O,  bathe  me  there  ;   O,  wash  me  white, 
And  free  from  every  mortal  stain  ; 

Restore  the  inner  man  to  sight, 
And   bid  my  spirit  live  again. 


MARY. 

WRITTEN  IN  JANUARY,    1826. 

START   not,   my  love,  'twas  but   the    midnight 

bell 

Pealing  its  drowsy  notes  upon  thine  ear, 
In  measured  tones  of  dreariness  which  knell 

The  solemn  dirge  of  the  departed  year, 
Dying  in  melancholy  deep  farewell. 

O,  how  that  lengthened  chime  was  wont  to 

cheer 

Us  with  its  magic ;  why  so  charmless  now  ? 
The  dew  of  sickness  stands  upon  thy  burning 
brow. 

* 
There  was  a  time,  my  own  belov'd,  when  I 

Did  rouse  thee  up  to  revel  at  that  sound ; 
And  now  I  sit  beside  thy  couch,  and  sigh 
To   watch    thy   throbbing    bosom's    fevered 

bound, 
Or  read  the  wishes  of  thy  languid  eye 

That  wanders  vacantly  the  chamber  round, 
Until  it  fix  with  steady  smile  on  him 
On  whom  alone  aye  falls  its  fondest,  warmest 
beam. 


38  MAR  Y. 

O,  Mary  dearest,  seven  years  have  past, 
Since  we  were  one  in  feeling,  future,  soul, 

And  every  year  seemed  happier  than  the  last, 
Because  we  loved  each  other  with  the  whole 

Of  our  affections,  which  no  time  can  blast, 
Change  alienate,  nor  circumstance  control ; 

For  passing  years  but  beautify  our  chain, 

As    rivers    widen    as    they    onward    near    the 
main.  ^ 

Thy  thoughts  are  wandering,  love ;   this   is  no 

bower, 
There    is    no    streamlet    rippling  'mong  the 

broom. 
Are  we  not  now  alone,  at  midnight  hour, 

Keeping  our  vigil  by  that  taper's  gloom  ? 
Here    is    no    singing    bird,    nor    shrub,    nor 

flower, 

Flinging  upon  the  breeze  its  rich  perfume  ; 
Save  I  thy  own  bird,  that,  too  sad  to  sing, 
Sits  by  thy  couch  with  weary,  drooping  wing. 

My  drooping  flower,  thy  cheek  is  flushed,  thy 

lip 
Is    parched    with    withering    drought,    and 

deeply  pale. 

But  come,  this   cooling   goblet  thou  shalt  sip. 
'Twill  quench  its  burning ;  O,  let  me  prevail 
Upon  thee,  sweetest,  but  to  quaff  this  cup, 
And  like  the  'mist  before  the  mountain  gale, 


MART.  39 

Or  evening's  shadows  at  the  dawn  of  clay, 
These    wildering    fantasies    will    quickly  fade 
away. 

I  cannot  sing,  my  love,  yet  faint  and  low, 

I'll  breathe  that  melody  thou  lov'st  to  hear ; 
O  could  the  strain  but  half  as  softly  flow. 

As  when  I  pour'd  it  first  upon  thine  ear, 
Then  ecstasy  would  light  that  brow  of  snow, 
And  brighten  up  that  eye's  dimmed  atmos 
phere, 
As  breaks  the   sunbeam  through  the  morning 

mists 

Serene    and    beauteous ;    list    now,    my    lov'd 
one,  list : 


HYMN. 

O  THERE'S  a  land  of  life  and  light, 
"Where  sickness  never  ventured, 

A'  paradise  of  pure   delight, 
Where  sorrow  never  entered. 

There  nought  to  bid  the  bosom  ache, 

Or  cloud  the  brow  with  sadness, 
But  every  heart  to  joy  awake, 
Forever  tuned  to  gladness. 

And  there  the  ransomed  spirits  dwell, 
By  life's  immortal  river, 


40  MARY. 

The  raptured  song  of  love  to  swell, 
Forever  and  forever. 

A  little  while  in  darkness  here, 
We,  weeping,   onward  wander ; 

.But  death  shall  every  fetter  tear, 
Which  keeps  fond  souls  asunder. 

The  grave  is  but  our  couch  of  rest, 
Where,  freed  from  sin  and  sorrow, 

We'll  sleep  until  we  join  the  blest 
On  judgment's  glorious  morrow. 


SLEEP. 

MY  wounded  dove,  the  soothing  strain, 
Like  summer  shower  on  thirsty  plain, 
Hath  for  a  while  beguiled  thy  woes, 
And  lulled  thee  into  Calm  repose. 

Then    slumber,  love,  slumber,  love,  softly  and 
bland, 

May  thy  visions  be  all  of  the  heavenly  land. 

And  'neath  the  cadence  of  the  lay, 

Thy  veering  fancies  died  away ; 

As  melts  the  dreamer's  grief,  when  clear 

The  voice  of  morning  meets  his  ear. 
Then    slumber,  love,  slumber,  love,  softly  and 

bland, 
May  thy  visions  be  all  of  the  heavenly  land. 


MARY.  41 

DEATIL 

MY  loved  one,  why  that  anguished  start? 

Thy  pale  lips'  silent  quiver? 
The  sigh  that  seemed  to  rend  thy  heart? 

That  wild  convulsive  shiver? 

And  wherefore  not  return  the  kiss 
'Mid  burning  tears  I  gave  thee  ? 

Why  heedless  of  his  deep  distress 
That  now  would  die  to  save  thee  ? 

One  word,  one  softly  whispered  word, 

Before  we  part  forever, 
Ere  yet  thy  spirit  be  restored 

To  its  Almighty  Giver. 


And  art  thou  then  at  rest  from  pain, 
Released  from  all  thy  sorrow, 

And  wilt  thou  never  wake  again 
To  welcome  in  the  morrow  ? 

Then  earth  no  more  my  heart  shall  claim, 
Since  death  the  bond  hath  riven  ; 

But  up  through  nature's  vast  domain, 
'Twill   follow  thee  to  heaven. 


42  MART. 

DECAY. 

THE  strife  is  o'er,  and  calmly  now. 
On  that  cold  alabaster  brow, 
The  glow  of  beauty  lingers  still 
Lake  moonlight  on  a  snowy  hill. 

And  on  that  death-cold  marble  cheek 
The  last  faint  fading  roseate  streak 
Of  life,  like  sunlight  on  the  wave, 
Plays  yet  as  if  to  mock  the  grave- 
But  o'er  that  mild  blue,  dove-like  eye, 
Like  clouds  athwart  the  moonlit  sky. 
The  darkening  haze  of  death  hath  passed, 
And  all  its  glory  overcast 

My  beauteous  idol  now  o'erturned 
For  whom  my  soul's  best  incense  burned. 
To  whom  my  spirit  bent  the  knee, 
Alas  I  why  is  it  thus  with  thee  ? 

Yet  wherefore  ask?  that  lip  so  pale, 
Though  mute  reveals  the  awful   tale; 
And  that  fixed  eye,  though  closed,  can  teach 
More  moving  truths  than  priests  can  preach. 

But  vain  is  grief,  regret  is  vain, 

Since  now  the  soul  hath  burst  its  chain, 


MART.  43 

Broke  from  its  prison-bouse  abode. 
And  sought  the  bosom  of  its  God. 

And  what  remaineth  here  but  clay. 
Fast  hastening  onward  to  decay? 
But  glorified  it  yet  shall  rise 
To  meet  immortals  in  the  skies. 

One  farewell  kiss,  but  not  forever, 
For  though  a  few  brief  years  we  sever, 
Rejoined  we  yet  shall  bask  for  aye. 
In  sunshine  of  eternal  dav. 


DffiGE. 

Mr  sun  of  gladness  now  though  set, 
Thou  shah  arise  in  beauty  yet, 
Serene  and  cloudless,  on  to  blaze 
In  an  immortal  length  of  days. 

Jso  setting  there,  no  darkening  cloud 
Thy  blissful  dream  of  joy  to  shroud ; 
For  thee,  the  Lord  in  might  sublime 
Gives  light  to  all  that  lovely  clime. 

My  star  of  bliss  whose  shrouded  beam 
No  more  upon  my  sight  shall  gleam, 
Since  thou  art  set,  a  purer  ray 
Shall  cheer  me  on  my  heavenward  way. 


44  MAR  Y 

Yea,  He  the  bright  and  morning-star, 
Shall  shine  upon  my  path  afar, 
Till  earthly  perils  all  are  past, 
Then  take  me  home  to  heaven  at  last. 

Farewell,  farewell,  the  darksome   grave 
All  that  is  dust  again  shall  have, 
But  the  immortal  part  hath  gone 
To  put  its  robes  of  glory  on ; 

Hath  sought  with  the  redeemed  to  share 
The  song  of  rapture  rising  there, 
To  join  the  everlasting  psalm 
Of  adoration  to  the  Lamb. 


EPITAPH. 

PAUSE,  reader,  o'er  this  lowly  bed, 
Where  one  that  erst  did  live  is  laid. 
Brief  was  her  race,  but  nobly  run  ; 
The  goal  is  reached,  the  crown  is  won. 

All  that  was  gentle,  pure,  refined, 
Benignant,  winning,  courteous,  kind, 
She  was ;  but  words  are  vain,  for  she 
Was  all  that  womankind  should  be. 


MARY.  45 

In  this  cold  world's  unkindly  soil, 
Her  virtues  shed  their  sweets  awhile  ; 
But  when  the  warning  word  was  given, 
She  burst  her  bonds  and  sprung  to  heaven. 


STANZAS  TO  A  LADY. 

SWEET  lady !    I   tell    thee    them    need'st    not 

tremble, 
Unwarily    should    thy     soft     fingers     touch 

mine ; 

I  love  thee  not,  maiden,  —  why  should   I   dis 
semble  ? 

My    heart   is    another's  —  it    ne'er    can    be 
thine. 

And  if  thou  wouldst  know  who  that  heart  has 

a  keeping, 
And    wherefore    my  brow  is  still   shadowed 

with  care? 

Or  why  all  my  gladness  is  changed  into  weep 
ing? 

Go    ask    the   dark    grave  —  for    my  idol   is 
there. 

But  it  was  not  the  spell   of  her  dark  ringlets 

wreathing 
Around  the  white  neck  so  surpassingly  fair, 


STANZAS   TO  A  LADT.  47 

Nor  the    music    that   seemed    from    that    soft 

bosom  breathing, 

As  if  telling   how  kind  was   the  heart    that 
beat  there. 

It  was   not    the    calm    of  her    brow's    snowy 

whiteness 
That  won  my  heart's  homage  from  all  else 

on  earth ; 
Nor  the  glance  of  her  eloquent  eyes'  thrilling 

brightness. 

O 

Still  sweetliest   beaming  when    by  her    own 
hearth. 

'Twas  the  smile  on  the  ruddy  lip  ever  repos 
ing* 

When  no  one  was  near  to  applaud   or  con 
demn  ; 

The  sunshine  within,  of  the  pure  soul  disclos 
ing; 

The  bliss  of  the    spirit  —  the    blaze    of  the 
gem. 

She  waned  not  as  light  from  the  landscape  at 

even, 
As  mist  from   the  mountain,  or   snow  from 

the  hill,— 

But  passed  as  a  star  from  the  azure  of  heaven, 
A  flash  from  the  cloud,  or  a   ray  from   the 
rill. 


48  STANZAS    TO  A  LADY. 

My    sainted,    my   loved    one,  my  lost    earthly 

treasure  — 

All  pure  and  beatified  now  as  thou   art, 
Thine,  dearest,  thine  be  my  harp's  latest  meas 
ure, 

The  last  sigh  of  my  soul,  the  last  throb  of 
my  heart  ! 


EULALIE. 

THERE  was  a  man  in  noon  of  life, 
Of  passions  ardent,  deep,  and  warm, 

Who  sought  by  turns  repose  and  strife, 
Alternate  courted  weal  and  harm. 

Divers  and  strange  the  ways  he  trod, 

Now  seemed  a  Satyr,  now  a  God. 

He  gazed  on  nature  with  a  look 

The  lover  on  his  idol  flings, 
And  woman's  heart  he  made  a  book, 

Wherein  unutterable   things 
Of  heaven  and  earth  by  turns  he  read, 
As  prudence  or  as  passion  led. 

Zig-zaging  thus  from  flower  to  thorn, 
From  thorn  to  flower  he  wildly  sprung, 

And  met  his  prayer.     His  golden  morn 
Xow  on  a  wanton's  smile  he  hung  ; 

Anon  his  eyes  well  bitter  tears, 

For  broken  peace  and  squander'd  years. 

One  morn,  an  angel  clad  in  light, 
Met  him  upon  his  devious  way, 

4 


50  EULALIE. 

Took  pity  on  his  mournful  plight, 

And  cleared  from  clouds  his  mental  ray  ; 
Then  pointing  heavenward  said  "  Beware  ! 
Uplift  thine  eyes,  thy  home  is  there !  " 

••< 

And  now  with  humble   heart  and  mien, 

And  chastened  spirit,  journeying  on, 
He  walks  a  stranger  'mid  the  scene, 

Where  once  with  meteor  flash  he  shone; 
And  ever  and  anon  with   prayer, 
He  looks  to  heaven,  for  she  is  there. 

And  still  upon  his  evening  path, 
A  light  is  shining  half  divine, 

For  in  his  spirit's  depth  he  hath 
Upraised  a  pure  and  sacred  shrine, 

And  that  adored  one,  who  was  she  ? 

His  guardian  angel,  Eulalie. 


SONG. 

How  pleasant,  in  our  highland  home, 

When  early  flowers  are  springing, 
Among  the  birchen  bowers  to   roam, 

And  list  the  linnet  singing; 
The  woodland  dells,  where  heather  bells, 

And  fox-gloves  fair  were  blooming, 
And  mountain  thyme,  all  in  its  prime, 

The  balmy  air  perfuming. 

Around  her  childhood's  happy  home 

A  wimpling  stream  went  chiding; 
Now  glassy  calm,  now  white  with  foam, 

Now  'neath  green  hazels  hiding; 
That  streamlet  fair,  those  woodlands  rare, 

Methinks  I  still  behold  them ; 
And  to  my  breast,  those  wild  flowers   blest, 

In  fancy  I  enfold  them. 

In  slumber,  thus,  we  oft  recall 

Some  long  departed  sorrow, 
Till  fancied  woes,  in  tears  that  fall, 

Fly  at  the  voice  of  morrow. 


52  SONG. 

Thus  mem'ry  dwells  on  fond  farewells, 
When  years  come  softly  stealing, 

Till  faith's  bright  ray  breaks  on  our  way, 
The  bliss  of  heaven  revealing. 


A  WELCOME   TO   CHKISTOPHER   NORTH. 

OH  the  queer  auld  man,   the  dear  auld  man, 

The  drollest  in  Christendie, 
Wha  sae  aft  has    beguil'd   doure  care    till    he 

smil'd ; 

He's  comin'  his  kinsfolk  to  see! 
He's  comin'  to  daud  f'rae  his  bonnet  a  blink 

The  stoure  of  classic  ha's ; 
He's    hung   up    his    gown    in    the    gude   auld 

town, 
An'  brunt  his  critic's  taws. 

CHORUS. 
He's    a   dear    auld   man,   he's  a  queer  auld 

man, 

He's  a  leal  auld  man,  he's  a  hale  auld  man, 
Frae  the  Aristook  to  the  Raritan 
Ye'll   no   find   the   fier    o'  our    spree    auld 
man. 

But  his  pike-staff  o'  aik,  whilk  mony  a  paik 

Has  rattled  on  timmer  croons, 
An'  his  birken  crutch,  ye'll  find  few  such 

For  soberin'  senseless  loons. 
Twa     switches     strang  —  the    short    an'    the 
lang, 

The  pawkie  auld  carle  brings, 


54      A    WELCOME   TO   CHRISTOPHER  NORTH. 

An'  wae  to  the  pate  o'  the  blether-skate, 
On  whilk  their  vengeance  rings. 

He's  a  bauld  auld  man,  he's   a   yauld   auld 

man, 

He's  a  free  auld  man,  he's  a  slee  auld  man, 
An'  there's  no  a  lady  in  a'  the  Ian' 
Wi'  a  blythesomer  e'e  than    our    braw  auld 

man. 

But  a  kindly  wit  has  Scotland's  Kit, 

As  kind  a  heart  an'  smile, 
An'   the  wierd  words  flung,  frae    his   witching 
tongue, 

The  glad  frae  the  lift  wad  wile. 
For  a'  kind  o'  lear,  His  presence  be  here ! 

An'  a'  kinds  o'  knowledge  has  he, 
Baith  Latin  an'  Greek  he  as  glibly  can  speak, 

As  ye  wad  the  A,  B,  C. 

He's  a  grave  auld  man,  he's   a   brave   auld 

man, 
He's  a  frank  auld  man,  he's   a  swank   auld 

man, 
At  fleeching,    or   preaching,   or   clearing   a 

pan, 
There's  nae   peer   to   our    North    Countree 

auld  man. 


A    WELCOME  TO   CHRISTOPHER  NORTH.      55 

Sae   lads   to    your    shanks,    an'   thegither    in 
ranks, 

Let's  welcome  gude  Kit  to  our  shore, 
In  our  costliest  braws  —  wi'  our    loudest   hur 
rahs, 

Till  the  wondering  welkin  roar; 
For  kings  are  but  caff,  an'  warld's    gear  draff, 

Engulph'd  by  the  tide  o'  Time, 
But  the  heaven-born  mind,  loving  a'  mankind, 

Till  doomsday  shall  tower  sublime. 

He's  a  grand  auld  man,  he's  a  bland    auld 

man, 
He's  a   yare   auld  man,    he's    a    rare    auld 

man, 

Tho'  the  terror  o'  sumph  an'  o'  charlatan, 
He's  a  kind-hearted  debonair  auld  man. 


"AH!  NA,  JOHNNIE,   NA." 

AH!   na,    Johnny,    na,    though    ye're    bonny, 

young,  and  braw, 
I   canna   leave  my  puir   auld   mither  pinin' 

a'  alane 
In  her  lowly  theekit  bield  i'  the  gloamin'  grey 

o'  eild, 

Wi'   nane    to   help   an'  nane    to    heed    her 
mane. 

Ah!  na,  Johnny,  na,  I  wot  ye  niver  saw, 
A  cruel  dochter  mak'  a  kindly  marrow  to  a 

man, 
Nor  the  ruthless  bairn  that  wrings  a  parent's 

bosom  strings, 
But  fell  beneath  misfortune's  bitter  ban. 

Ah !  na,  Johnny,  na,  when  Liking  gies  the  law 
Puir  Duty  aft  maun  jerk  an'  jee  an'  hide  her 

head  awhile, 
But  a  blessing  ay  maun  be  on  the  bairn  frae 

on  hie, 
Wha  seeks  a  mither's  sorrows  to  beguile. 


"AH!  NA,  JOHNNY,  NA."  57 

Ah !    na,  Johnny,  na,  'twould    break  my  heart 

in  twa, 
Should   ony  winsome   lassie  wile   awa'  your 

love  frae  me, 
But  laddie  dinna  blame  that  I  canna  lea'  my 

hame, 
Or  frail  auld  widow'd  minny  love  for  thee. 

Ah!  na,  Johnny,  na,  the  true  love  atween    us 

twa, 
Will  like  a  rose  tree   blossom  on  for  mony 

a  happy  year, 
An'  ilk    comin'  spring  will   find    its    tendrils 

closer  twin'd, 
An'  nearer  to  ilk  ither  and  mair  dear. 


RICHARD   CCEUR  DE  LION. 

BRIGHTLY,  brightly  the  moonbeam  shines 

On  the  castle  turret  wall; 
Darkly,  darkly  the  spirit  pines, 

Deep,  deep  in  its  dungeon's  thrall. 
He  hears  the  screech-owl  whoop  reply 

To  the  warder's  drowsy  strain, 
And  thinks  of  home,  and  heaves  a  sigh 

For  his  own  bleak  hills  again. 

Sweetly,  sweetly  the  spring-flowers  spread, 

When  first  he   was  fettered  there ; 
Slowly,  slowly  the  sere  leaves  fade, 

Yet  breathes  he  that  dungeon's  air. 
All  lowly  lies  his  banner  bright, 

That  foremost  in  battle  streamed, 
And  dim  is  the  sword  that  in  the  fight 

Like  midnight  meteor  beamed. 

But  place  his  foot  upon  the  plain, 

That  banner  o'er  his  head, 
His  good  lance  in  his  hand  again, 

With  Paynim  slaughter  red, 


RICHARD   C(EDR  DE  LION.  59 

The  craven  hearts  that  round  him  now 

With  coward  triumph  stand, 
Would  quail  before  that  dauntless  brow, 

And  the  death-flash  of  that  brand. 


THE   ISLAND   QUEEN. 

How  sternly  beautiful  art  them, 

Romantic  northern   land ; 
Whose  lofty  cloud-encompassed  brow, 

And  lopk  of  high  command, 
Bespeak  thee  wont  to  have  thy  will,  — 

To  wake  or  bid  the  world  be  still. 

Amidst  the  surging  ocean  throned, 

That  laves  thy  queenly  feet, 
And  round  by  girdling  mountains  zoned, 

Thou  tak'st  thy  regal  seat, 
The  sovereign  lady  of  the  sea, 

Hope  of  the  brave  —  home  of  the  free. 

I've  seen  the  Summer  coronal 
Thy  princely  robe  with  flowers. 

And  Autumn  gather  sweets  from  all 
The  upland  dingle  bowers, 

And  breathe  around  thee,  the  perfumes 
Of  all  his  fairest  mountain  blooms. 

But  when  hoar  Winter  round  thy  brow 
His  white  tiara  bound, 


THE  ISLAND    QUEEN.  61 

And  like  a  spotless  vestal  thou, 

In  dazzling  beauty  crowned, 
Sat  pinnacled  in  grandeur  there, 

What  sight  on  earth  so  calm,  so  fair! 

Now  o'er  thy  vales  the  virgin  Spring, 
Her  joyous  smile  hath  thrown ; 

And  from  thy  woods  love-warblings  ring 
In  many  a  varied  tone ; 

And  lambs  upon  the  green  sward  leap, 
And  herds  are  lowing  on  each  steep. 

And  all  is  fair  and  free  from  thrall, 

Where  despot  none  is  found ; 
For  shackles  from  the  captive  fall, 

Who  touches  English  ground; 
And  by  each  rude  and  gentle  tongue 

Upon  the  earth,  thy  praise  is  sung. 

Hast  thou  not  to  the  nations  been 

A  hope-inspiring  star? 
When  tyrants  made  the  world  a  scene 

Of  carnage,  waste,  and  war, 
Till  forth  thy  serried  legions  thronged, 

To  spoil  the  spoiler  —  right  the  wronged. 

But  calmly  thou'rt  reposing  now 

Like  a  lion  in  his  lair, 
And  peace  hath  charmed  from  thy  brow 


62  THE  ISLAND    QUEEN. 

The  tempest  cloud  of  care ; 
But  woe  to  him  would  wake  thy  ire  — 
'Twere  better  rouse  old  Etna's  fire. 

All  lovely  art  thou,  ocean  queen, 

Most  beautiful  and  free  ; 
And  where  on  this  terrestrial  scene, 

Is  aught  may  vie  with  thee? 
For  on  thy  consecrated  sod, 

Hath  Freedom  chosen  her  abode. 

And  long  to  her  may  incense  rise, 

From  city,  cot,  and  wold, 
Until  the  moon  in  dotage  dies, 

The  sun  grows  dim  and  cold ; 
Then  be  the  dirge  of  nature  sung, 

And  heaven's  last  trumpet-summons  rung. 


A  MOURNER'S   DREAM. 

YESTREEN  at  midnight  hour  I  crept 

Forlorn  to  my  lonely  bed, 
For  the  carking  cares  of  this  weary  world, 

Lay  on  my  heart  like  lead. 

And  on  my  pillow  bitter  tears 

Of  sorrow  fell  like  rain, 
Till  balmy  slumber  kindly  stole 

The  poison  sting  of  pain. 

And  then  methought  my  buried  love, 

With  brow  of  blissful  calm, 
Came  softly  in,  as  she  was  wont, 

At  hour  of  evening  psalm. 

And  down  beside  my  couch  she  sat, 

As  if  to  list  my  moan, 
While  close  I  held  my  breath  to  drink 

Her  words'  celestial  tone. 

O,  Willie,  wherefore  weep  ye  sae, 

And  wherefore  do  ye  pine  ? 
And  is  the  sacred  lore  forgot, 

Ye  taught  to  me  lang  syne? 


64  A  MOURNER'S  DREAM. 

Leave  sordid  cares  to  sordid  souls, 

The  earth  to  earthly  men, 
And  lift  thy  open  brow  to  heaven, 

With  faith  and  hope  again. 

And  God  on  high  shall  be  thy  guide, 

His  angel  host  thy  guard, 
And  earth  shall  turn  to  heaven,  and  heaven 

At  last  be  thy  reward. 

Keep  hands  unsullied,  heart  unstained, 

Nor  mammon  worship  more, 
And  I  shall  meet  thee,  Willie  dear, 

On  yon  immortal  shore. 


"IT  IS   WELL." 
2  KINGS  iv.  26. 

IT  is  well  with  the  soul  of  the  righteous,  well 
Though  the  seas  of  adversity  over  him  swell ; 
For  He  who  is  mighty  will  ever  be  near, 
To  comfort  his  saints  amid  sorrow  and  fear. 

It   is   well,    though   the   idols  in    whom    thou 

didst  trust 
Should  be  shiver'd  before  thee  and  trampled 

in  dust: 
Believer,  in   love   from  thy  grasp    they    were 

riven, 
That  thy  hopes  might  be  anchor'd  alone  upon 

heaven. 

It  is  well  —  it  is  well  —  all  is  well,  still  with 

thee, 
Though    thy    gourds     of     enjoyment    blasted 

should  be ; 
Bless  the   hand  that  bereaves,  'tis  a  Father's 

own  hand, 

And  beckons  thy  thoughts  to  a  lovelier  land. 
5 


66  "/71  IS   WELL." 

And   when   'neath   the   cold   wizard    touch    of 

decay, 

The  nearest  and  dearest  of  friends  fade  away 
Like  autumn's   sere   honors,  when    strew'd  on 

the  gale, 
Even    then    be   the  words  of  thy  soul,  "  It  is 

well ! " 

When  the   combat   is    o'er  and  the  race  it  is 

run, 

And  the  bright  goal  of  glory  almost  is  won, 
O  Saint,  may  thy  spirit,  triumphant  in  faith, 
Exclaim,  "  It  is  well !  "  in  the  valley  of  death. 

And  when  the  veil  rends  that  no  longer  shall 

sever 

Thy  soul  from  the  joys  of  Jehovah  forever, 
May   the    last  faint  sounds   on    thy   pale    lips 

that  swell, 
Be  whisper'd  in   rapture,  "  It  is   well !    It   is 

well ! " 


THE  FAITHLESS. 

WE  part,  —  yet  wherefore  should  I  weep, 

From  faithless  thing  like  thee  to  sever  ? 
Or  let  one  tear  mine  eyelids  steep, 

While  thus  I  cast  thee  off  forever  ? 
I  loved  thee  —  need  I  say  how  well  ? 

Few,  few  have  ever  loved  so  dearly  ; 
As  many  a  sleepless  hour  can  tell, 

And  many  a  vow  breath'd  too  sincerely. 

But  late  beneath  its  jetty  lash, 

I  loved  to  mark  thy  blue  eyes'  splendor, 
Which  wont  all  witchingly    to  flash 

On  me  its  light,  so  soft  and  tender  ; 
Now.  from  that  glance  I  turn  away, 

As  if  its  thrilling  gaze  could  wound  me : 
Though  not,  as  once,  in  love's   young  day, 

When    thoughtless    passion's   fetters    bound 
me. 

The  dimpling  smile,  with  sweetness  fraught  — 
The  bosom,  'mid  its  snow,  upheaving ; 

Who,  that  had  seen  them,  could  have  thought 
That  things  so  fair  could  be  deceiving  ? 


68  THE  FAITHLESS. 

* 
The  moon,  the  sky,  the  wave,  the  wind, 

In  all  their  fitful  moods  of  changing, 
Are  nought  to  wavering  woman's  mind, 
m  Forever  shifting,  ever  ranging ! 

Farewell !  I'd  rather  launch  my  bark 

Upon  the  angry  ocean  billow, 
'Mid  wintry  winds,  and  tempests  dark, 

Than  make  thy  faithless  breast  my  pillow. 
Thy  broken  vow  now  cannot  bind  ; 

Thy  streaming    tears    no    more    can    move 

me  ; 
And  thus  I  turn  from  thee,  to  find 

A  heart  that  may  more  truly  love  me. 


EPISTLE  TO  LIZZY  LEE. 

WHERE  Hudson  deep,  majestic,  wide, 
Pours  to  the   sea  his  monarch   tide, 
And  mountains  mirror'd  in  their  pride 

O'  simmer  sheen, 
A  cozy  cot  may  be  descried 

'Mid  maples  green. 

The  settin'  sun  is  sweetly  glantin' 
His  gowden  glories  down  the  plantin', 
While  .loud  the  mellow  robin  's  chantin* 

His  melodic, 
And   on  the  croft  the  bairns  are  rantin' 

Wi'  mickle  glee. 

The  sheep  are  nibblin'  on  the  swaird, 
The  ky  are  routing  i'  the  yard, 
The  naigs  wi'  e'ening  corn  are  car'd, 

An'  i'  the  pen 
The  ca's  ha'e  low'd  till  echo  rair'd 

Lowings  again. 

Beneath  the  honeysuckle's  screen, 
Gazing  upon  the  gladsome  scene, 


70  EPISTLE   TO  LIZZY  LEE. 

My  modest,  comely,  gentle  Jean, 

Wi'  bairn  on  knee, 
Sits  smilin'  like  some  shepherd   queen 

O'  Arcadie. 

And  Arcadie  it  is  I  trew 

To  me  whose  hopes  and  aims  are   few, 

Where  unpolluted  joys  I  pu' 

Fresh  frae  love's  tree, 
Which  bears  young  blossoms  fair  and  new 

For  ay  to  me. 

And  certes  tho'  my  day  is  dreigh, 
And  fortune  still  looks  sour  an'  skeigh, 
Baith  head  and  heart  I'll  still  haud  high, 

An'  cock  my  bonnet, 

Though    brainless,     purse-proud    coofs     cry 
"  feigh," 

I'll  pen  a  sonnet. 

Let  saints  look  shy,  and  sages  sharp; 
Let  prudes   cry   "  fye  ! "  and  critics  carp, 
I'll  wake  ance  mair  my  Norlan'  harp, 

An'  think  nae  crime 
To  weave  the  measure,  woof  an'  warp, 

In  Doric  rhyme. 

'Tis  true  I  never  can  aspire 

To  Jamie's  bauld  Promethean  fire, 


EPISTLE   TO  LIZZY  LEE.  71 

Or  glorious  Walter's  lofty  lyre, 

Or  Robbie's  strain, 
The  chief  an'  king  o'  a'  the  choir 

0'  mortal  men. 

But  yet  in  artless  rustic  sang 

O'  scenes  dear  Scotia's  vales  amang, 

"When  simmer  a  'her  sweetness  flang 

O'er  hill  an'  plain, 
A  simple  minstrel  thinks  nae  wrang 

To  lilt  a  strain. 

And  ablins  to  his  muirland  lays, 

Will  gentle  L gie  meed  o'  praise, 

Nae  hollow,  courtly,  sugar'd  praise, 

O'  commendation, 
But  kind  encomium,  meet  to  raise 

Self-approbation. 

And  haply  when  he's  ower  thrang, 
He'll  sing  to  her  some  rustic  sang, 
Sometimes  o'  joy,  sometimes  o'  strang, 

Hear^riving  sorrow, 
Sic  as  the  breast  o'  Mary  wrang, 

By  flowery  Yarrow. 

'Twad  pleasure  her  I  weel  opine 
To  list  the  lays  o'  auld  lang  syne, 


72  EPISTLE   TO  LIZZY  LEE. 

Strain  after  strain,  line  after  line, 
Wi'  transport  fillin' ; 

A  pensive  sadness  half  divine 
The  bosom  thrill  in'. 

Men  worship  wealth,  and  sigh  for  rank, 
As  if  their  heav'n  were  in  a  bank, 
And  when  by  mony  a  wily  prartk, 

Wi'  gear  they're  gorged, 
'Tis  but  to  hear  the  fetters  clank 

Themselves  hae  forg'd. 

But  tent  me  winsome  Lizzy  Lee, 
Could  wealth  ay  fa'  to  sic  as  thee, 
UnspoiPd  by  greatness  and  degree, 

By  purse  unprided : 
E'en  God's  puir  bodies  wad  agree 

'Twas  weel  divided. 

Oh  leeze  me  on  the  open  heart ! 
Unchill'd  by  greed,  unstain'd   by  art, 
Unkent  on  fashion's  giddy  mart: 

By  rank  unstared, 
Scorning  to  play  a  fawning  part 

To  king  or  laird. 

And  should  we  meet  —  and  meet  we  shall 
In  spite  o'  bondage  and  o'  thrall  — 


EPISTLE   TO  LIZZY  LEE.  73 

A  voice  shall  echo  in  her  hall 

To  some  auld  ditty, 
And  if  on  tentless  ears  it  fall, 

The  mair's  the  pity. 

How  soothing  is  this  solitude, 
Where  nature,  in  her  wildest  mood 
Of  richly  cultur'd  quietude 

And  beauty,  reigns, 
And  gentle  L ,  the  lov'd,  the  good, 

The  soul  enchains. 

The  greenwood  glade,  the   sylvan  bower, 
The  garden  grac'd  with  many  a  flower, 
The  wild  birds'  song  at  gloaming  hour 

In  melting  strain, 
These  all  are  gentle   Lizzy's  dower, — 

This  her  domain. 

What  is  there  in  the  grand  saloon 
Amid  the  dinsome   stoory  toun, 
To  keep  the  weary  heart  in  tune  ? 

Which  like  a  dove, 
Pines  through  the  leafy  groves  o'  June, 

At  will  to  rove. 

O  what  has  wealth  or  what  has  lare 
To  heal  the  canker  wounds  o'  care, 


74  EPISTLE  TO  LIZZY  LEE. 

Or  soothe  the  heart  wi'   sorrow  sair 
When,  tempest-driven, 

The  bloodshot  e'e  o'  wild  despair 
It  lifts  to  Heaven? 

Wha  spurns  distrust  an'  loathes  disguise 
An'  ilka  will  that  knav'ry  tries, 
That  is  the  heart  o'  hearts  to  prize ; 

An'  where  'tis  given, 
Nae  greater  blessing  to  the  wise 

Can  come  frae  Heaven. 

Then  wi'  a  sordid  miser's  care 

That  friendship  in  my  heart  I'll  bear ; 

A  glowing  jewel  —  priceless  —  rare  — 

Of  worth  untold, 
That  deeply  shall  be  treasur'd  there 

Like  hidden  gold. 

Farewell;   for  while  this  strain  I'm  weavin,' 

The  sober  russet  plaid  o'  even 

Has  thrown  athort  the  azure  heaven 

Its  darksome  cover ; 
But  gay  or  gloomy,  glad  or  grievin', 

I'm  thine  forever. 


NIGHT  ON  THE  SEA-SHORE. 

THE  heavens  are  cloudless, 

The  winds  are  asleep, 
And  there  is  not  a  breath 

On  the  face  of  the  deep, 
Save  the  drowsy  sound 

Of  the  fisherman's  oar, 
As  he  heavily  nears 

His  boat  to  the  shore. 

The  shepherd's  blithe  whistle 

Hath  ceas'd  on  the  hill, 
The  watch-dog  is  mute, 

And  the  forest  is  still ; 
And  the  silence  of  ocean, 

Of  earth  and  of  sky, 
Is  soft  as  the  slumber 

Of  innocency. 

Now  the  weary  fisher 

Hath  moor'd  his  light  skiff; 
The  sea-bird  hath  gone 

To  his  place  in  the  cliff; 


76  NIGHT   ON  THE  SEA-SHORE. 

And  the  aspect  of  nature 
Seems  silent  and  dead, 

As  man's  mortal  part 

When  the  spirit  hath  fled. 

The  young  autumn  moon 

Looks  abroad  on  the  scene, 
Unclouded,  untroubled. 

Tranquil  and  serene  ; 
And  walks  the  blue  azure, 

As  lovely  and  fair 
As  if  the  dark  tempest 

Had  never  been  there. 

It  is  thus  with  man 

In  prosperity's  hour  ; 
He  plucks  the  gay  blossom 

From  pleasure's  fair  flower ; 
And  his  eye  beams  as  bright, 

As  joyous  and  clear, 
As  if  it  had  never 

Been  dimmed  with  a  tear. 

When  the  moonlit  heavens 
Their  glories  unfold, 

Like  a  beautiful  garment 
Bedropped  with  gold ; 

And  lake,  and  river, 
And  ocean  waves'  hue, 


NIGHT   ON   THE  SEA-SHORE.  77 

Are  all  of  the  deepest 
Cerulean  blue. 

Tis  in  the  softness 

Of  such  a  calm  hour, 
That  earthly  passions 

Relinquish  their  power. 
Then  soars  the  glad  soul 

All  unfettered  and  free, 
Through  the  boundless  space 

Of  immensity. 

Then  seemeth  the  earth, 

With  its  joys  and  fears, 
Like  some  faded  dream 

Of  our  boyhood  years ; 
And  the  bliss  that  we  taste 

In  such  moments  of  thought 
Breathes  peace  to  the  soul, 

And  is  never  forgot. 


THE   HUSBAND'S   SONG. 

WHA  my  kettle  now  will  boil, 
Wha  will  cheer  me  wi'  her  smile, 
Wha  will  lichten  a'  my  toil, 
When  thou  art  far  awa'? 

Wha  will  meet  me  on  the  stair, 
Wha  will  kiss  me  kindly  there, 
And  lull  to  rest  ilk  earthly  care, 
When  thou  art  far  awa'? 

When  the  day  is  at  a  close, 
Wha  will  mak  my  wee  drap  brose, 
Snodly  mend   my  holey  hose, 
When  thou  art  far  awa'? 

Wha  will  wi'  my  failings  bear, 
Wha  my  e'enin'  psalm  will  share, 
Wha  will  wi'  me  kneel  in  prayer, 
When  thou  art  far  awa'  ? 

When  the  nights  grow  lang  and  cauld, 
And  the  wind  blaws  snell  and  bauld, 
Wha  her  arms  around  me  fauld, 
When  thou  art  far  awa'? 


THE  HUSBAND'S  SONG.  79 

Wha  will  trigly  mak'  my  bed, 
Draw  my  nichtcap  on  my  head, 
And  kiss  me  when  I  down  am  laid, 
When  thou  art  far  awa'? 

Nane !  and  dowie  now  I  gang, 
Through  the  house  the  hale  nicht  lang, 
Croonin'  ower  some  simple  sang 
O'  her  that's  far  awa'! 

Now  I  downa  bide  to  leuk 
Ayont  the  cheerless  ingle  neuk, 
Where  oft  I  read  the  Holy  Beuk 
To  her  that's  far  awa' ! 

Haste,  my  dearest !  haste  ye  hame ; 
Come,  my  ain  beloved  dame  ! 
Ferry  ower  loch,  sea,  and  stream, 
And  ne'er  gae  mair  awa' ! 


CONFESSION. 

"  Who  can  forgive  sins,  but  God  only?  " 

NAY,  holy  father,  come  not  near, 

The  secret  of  my  soul  to  hear, 

For  not  to  mortal  ear  I  tell 

The  thoughts  that  in  this  bosom  swell,  — 

The  hopes,  the  wishes,  wild  and  vain, 

Which  wander  through  this  burning  brain. 

Frail  fellow-being,  why  should  I 

Before  thee  kneel  imploringly? 

'Twere  worse  than   madness  to  believe 

Man  can  his  brother-worm  forgive, 

Or  yield  unto  the  contrite  one 

That  peace  which  comes  from  Heaven  alone. 

No  —  let  me  spend  this  blessed  hour 

Communing  with  a  higher  power. 

The  world  shut  out,  I'll  lowly  bend 

To  my  Almighty  Father,  Friend : 

To  Him  for  mercy  I'll  appeal  — 

To  Him  my  inmost  soul  reveal. 

He  knows  the  heart  that  He  has  made, 

By  each  alternate  passion  swayed ; 

And  can  forgive  it,  for  He  knows 

Its  wants,  its  weakness,  and  its  woes. 


CONFESSION.  81 

By  His  protecting  pardon  blest, 
How  sweetly  might  I  sink  to  rest, 
And  sleep  His  sheltering  wing  beneath, 
Though  'twere  the  last  dark  sleep  of  death. 


MARIAN'S   GRAVE. 

WE  saw  decay's  pale,  hectic  streak 
A  moment  flush  her  faded  cheek; 
And  heard  the  sounds  of  farewell  quiver 
Upon  her  lip,  now  mute  forever. 

And  for  a  space  her  sunken  eye 
Seem'd  lighted  with  a  brilliancy 
Of  sunshine  from  the  soul  imparted, 
So  bright  a  look  of  love  it  darted. 

0  !  that  so  sweet,  so  fair  a  form 
Should  feed  the  loathsome  church-yard  worm ; 
'Mid  crumbling  bones  and  clammy  clay, 
The  stern  memorials  of  decay. 

No!  she  should  not  be  shrouded  there, 
So  pure,  so  gentle,  young,  and  fair, 
Nor  hireling's  vulgar  fingers  stain 
Her  coffin,  with  their  touch  profane. 

Far  down  the  green  dell's  woody  glade, 
Deep,  deep  beneath  the  elm-tree's  shade, 
With  wild  flowers  springing  o'er  her  breast,  — 
There  she  should  have  her  place  of  rest. 


MARIAN'S  GRAVE.  83 

No  choristers  beside  her  grave 
Should  chant  their  dull  funereal  stave ; 
Nor  sculptured  marble  rise  to  show 
The  sleeper's  name  that  rests  below. 

But  there  the  thrush,  at  vesper  hour; 
His  mellow  hymn  of  love  would   pour; 
The  red-breast  too,  in  autumn  day, 
Would  warble  there  his  roundelay. 

There  Spring  would  spread  her  gayest  green, 
And  nightly,  'mid  the  sylvan  scene, 
Kind  fairy  elves,  with  many  a  flower 
Begemm'd   with  dew,  would  deck  that  bower. 

And  all  forgetful  of  her  care, 
In  silence  she  would  slumber  there, 
Nor  e'er  again  heart-broken  grieve 
That  man  should  woman  so  deceive. 


DIRGE. 

CHARLIE,  darling   little  Charlie, 
Much  beloved  but  blighted  early ; 
Blinding  tears  of  grief  are  welling, 
As  we  can  scan  thy  narrow  dwelling. 

Household  echoes,  lately  ringing 
To  the  gladness  of  thy  singing, 
Now  are  silent  —  or  awaken 
To  the  wail  of  hearts  forsaken. 

While   the  budding  woods  were  growing, 
Daffodils  and  pansies  blowing, 
Song-birds  to  their  haunts  returning, 
Thou  hast  gone  and  left  us  mourning ! 

Mourning  for  our  cherished  treasure, 
Mourning  for  our  vanished  pleasure, 
Mourning  for  the  broken  story 
Of  its  brief  terrestrial  glory. 

To  the  body  hearts  were  clinging, 
Now  with  worldly  sorrow  wringing; 
He  recall'd  thee  home  who  gave  thee : 
Night  was  come,  and  death  would   have  thee. 


DIRGE.  85 

So  we  leave  thee  here  in  slumber 
Which  no  earthly  pain  can  cumber, 
Till  the  trump  of  God  awake  thee, 
Home  in  Christ  in  bliss  to  take  thee. 


THE   FOUNTAIN   OF   LIFE. 

"  To  whom  can  we  go,  but  unto  thee  ?     Thou  hast  the 
words  of  eternal  life."  —  Matt.  xiv.  6. 

BUT  unto  Thee  —  but  unto  Thee, 
To  whom  can  man  in  trouble  flee? 
To  whom  his  malady  make  known, 
O  living  God !  but  Thee  alone  ? 

Thou  the  alone  Physician  art, 
Canst  heal  the  sorrow-broken  heart; 
Subdue  the  wounded  spirit's  pain, 
And  bid  it  bound  with  joy  again. 

The  troubled  springs  to  which,  at  first, 
We  blindly  stoop'd  to  slake  our  thirst, 
Hath  dried  up  like  a  summer  rill, 
And  left  us  faint  and  thirsting  still. 

When  storms  are  low'ring  o'er  our  head, 
And  every  earthly  stay  is  fled, 
To  whom  for  refuge  can  we  flee, 
0  living  God !  but  unto  Thee  ? 


THE  FOUNTAIN   OF  LIFE.  87 

No  health  earth's  turbid  streams  contain  : 
Who  drinks  from  them  must  thirst  again ; 
But  he  who  quaffs  life's  limpid  river, 
No  more  shall  thirst  again  forever? 


THE  LILY  O'  GLENLYON. 

SWEET  is  the  e'ening's  tear  o'  dew 
Upon  the  bending  harebell  blue, 
But  sweeter  far  is  she  I  lo'e, — 
The  Lily  o'  Glenlyon. 

I've  kissed  wi'  mony  a  Highland  quean, 
Wi'  Lowland  maids  danc'd  on  the  green, 
But  nane  like  her  I  kiss'd  yestreen, — 
The  Lily  o'  Glenlyon. 

O,  thou  art  sweet  as  e'ening's  gale 
That  whispers  down  the  blossom'd  dale, 
An'  soft  as  lover's  wooing   tale, — 
Sweet  Lily  o'  Glenlyon. 

I've  seen  the  rose  in  lordly  bower, 
The  violet  bloom  by  ruined  tower, 
But  thou  art  beauty's  peerless  flower,  — 
Sweet  Lily  o'  Glenlyon. 

Nae  gems  thy  gouden  ringlets  braid, 
Thy  hrawest  veil's  the  tartan  plaid, 
My  Highland  love,  my  mountain  maid, 
My. Lily  o'  Glenlyon. 


THE  LILY   0'    GLENLTON.  89 

Thy  rosy  cheek,  thy  deep-blue  e'e, 
That  shot  sic  deadly  glaumerie, 
Hath  bound  my  heart  for  aye  to  thee, 
Sweet  Lily  o'  Glenlyon. 


ST.  MARY'S  WELL. 

THE  blithest  e'e  I  ever  saw 
"Was  her  e'e  o'  heavenly  blue, 

The  sweetest  kiss  I  ever  staw 
Was  a  kiss  o'  her  hinny  moue. 

We  met  when  gloamin's  dewy  tear 

Upon  the  wild  flower  fell, 
We  parted  when  the  morning  clear 

Shone  on  St.  Mary's  Well. 

Nae  vulgar  love  was  ours,  I  trew, 

At  that  calm  blessed  hour, 
For  the  pearly  drap  o'  siller  dew 

Ne'er  was  more  chastely  pure. 

We  gazed  upo'  the  stars  aboon 
That  danc'd  to  the  waverin'  sicht, 

An'  blessed  the  bonny  simmer  moon 
Wi'  her  cloudless  mellow  licht. 

We  swore  nae  aith,  we  pledg'd  nae  vow 

To  be  to  ither  kind, 
For  honest  sauls  will  aye  be  true, 

Without  an  aith  to  bind. 


ST.  MARTS   WELL.  91 

I'll  aye  gang  to  St.  Mary's  Well, 
By  the  green  wood  leafy  shaw, 

To  meet  the  maid  o'  Annandale, 
That  wil'd  my  heart  awa'. 


JEAN    LINN. 

O  HAUD  na  your  noddle  sae  hie,  ray  doo, 
O  baud  na  your  noddle  sae  hie  ; 

The    days   that   hae   been   may  be   yet   again 

seen, 
Sae  look  na  sae  lightly  on  me,  my  doo. 

0  geek  na  at  hame  hodden  gray,  Jean  Linn, 
O  geek  na  at  hame  hodden  gray ; 

Your  gutcher  and  mine  wad  hae  thocht  them 
selves  fine 
In  cleedin  sae  bein,  bonny  May. 

Ye  mind  when  we  won    in    Whin  glen,   Jean 

Linn  ? 

Ye  mind  when  we  won  in  Whin  glen ; 
Your  daddy,  douce  carle,  was   cottar  to  mine, 
And  our    herd   was  your   bonny  sell,  then, 
Jean  Linn. 

0  then  you  were  a'  thing  to  me,  Jean  Linn, 
O  then  you  were  a'  thing  to  me  ; 


JEAN  LINN.  93 

An'  the  moments  scour'd  by,  like  birds  through 

the  sky, 

When    tenting    the   owsen    wi'    thee,    Jean 
Linn. 

I    twin'd     you    a  bower   by   the    burn,   Jean 

Linn, 

I  twin'd  you  a  bower  by  the  burn  ; 
But  dreamt  na   that   hour,  as   we   sat   in  the 

bower, 

That  fortune  would  take   such  a  turn,  Jean 
Linn. 

You  busk  noo  in  satins  fu'  braw,  Jean  Linn, 
You  busk  noo  in  satins  fu'  braw  ; 

Your  daddie's  a  laird,  mine's  i'  the  kirk  yard, 
And  I'm   your   puir   ploughman,  Jock  Law,* 
Jean  Linn. 


SONG. 

OLD  England,  warlike  England, 

Thy  lion  wakes  again  ! 
His  roar  through  sunny  Ind  resounds 

As  once  it  pealed  in  Spain. 
In  soul-arousing  notes  it  rings, 

Through  Cathay's  distant  clime, 
And  a  wail 
On  the  gale 

Is  blent  with  battle's  hymn, 
While  the  craven  herds   amaz'd  behold 

Triumph  unstained  by  crime. 

Old  England,  dauntless  England, 

Thy  conq'ring  legions  come ! 
The  Clansmen's  gathering  pibroch  blends 

With  trumpet  and  with  drum. 
Bold  Erin's  battle-cry  bursts  forth, 

As  on  the  dusky  bands 
With  a  cheer 
They  career, 

And  the  traitors  bite  the  sands, 
Or  like  the  chaff  by  rushing  winds, 

Are  scattered  through  the  lands. 


SONG.  95 

Old  England,  noble  England! 

Thy  hand  ne'er  drew  the  glaive 
But  from  his  foes  to  free  the  wronged, 

His  fetters  from  the  slave ; 
Yet  ever  gen'rous  in  thy  strength 

To  spare  a  fallen  foe, 
No  stain 
Can  remain 

On  thy  scutcheon's  spotless  snow, 
Who  strong  in  might  upholds  the  right 

And  strikes  the  spoiler  low. 

Old  England,  glorious  England! 

On  this  terrestrial  sphere 
For  truth  and  worth  and  majesty 

"Where  yet  was  found  thy  peer? 
Thou  treader  down  of  tyranny, 

Thou  tamer  of  the  strong, 
Land  and  main 
Own  thy  reign, 

And  round  thy  footstool  throng, 
While  wand'ring  nations  worship  thee, 

Thou  Queen  of  sword  and  song. 


SONG  FOR  THE  ANNIVERSARY  OF  THE 
BIRTHDAY  OF  BURNS. 

TUNE  —  "  Go  to  Berwick.  Johnnie." 

BLESSING  on  the  day  that  brings  us  a'  thegither, 
To   drink   in    usquebae   the   land  o'  kilts   an' 

heather ; 
An'  blessing  on  the  night  set  Scotia's  heart  a 

throbbin', 
As  wi'  supreme  delight  she  welcoru'd  winsome 

Robin. 

Then  its  warlike  head  her  thistle  lifted  proudly, 

While  strains  might  wake  the  dead  her  bag 
pipes  lilted  loudly : 

Then  by  loch  an'  lea,  then  ower  muir  an' 
cairn, 

Fair  Minstrelsy  sung  welcome  to  the  bairn. 

A'  the  world  ower  has  heard  his  wild  harp 
ringing, 

Hearts  on  ilka  shore  ha'e  kindled  wi'  its  sing 
ing* 

Through  the  lordly  ha',  i'  the  reeky  shealling, 

To  the  hearts  o'  a'  Robie's  sangs  gae  stealing. 


BIRTHDAY   OF  BURNS.  97 

Ilka  bosom  here  at  that  lovM  name  is  throb- 
bin'; 

Here's  to  Scotia  dear,  an'  Scotia's  darlin' 
Robin ; 

Here's  to  Hieland  hame  and  Hieland  hills  sae 
hoary, 

An'  here's  to  him  whose  fame  made  brighter 
Scotia's  glory. 

Kindly  'tis  and  meet  thus  yearly  to  forgather, 
We  whose  favbr'd  feet  ha'e  trod  the  muirland 

heather ; 
Paidl't  in  the  streams  frae  Scotia's   mountains 

rowin' ; 
Heard  her  pibroch  scream  and  pu'd  her  bonny 

gowan. 

Blessing  on  the  land  that  mither-like   receiv'd 

us, 
Took  us  by  the  hand  and  brither-like   believ'd 

us; 
Long  as  ocean  laves   ani   ocean    breezes   fan 

her, 
Still  o'er  ocean  waves  exalt  the  starry  banner. 

While  we've  truth  and  worth,  manly  faith  an' 

honor, 
Let  our  hearts  send   forth  their  benison  upon 

her; 

7 


98  BIRTHDAY  OF  BURNS. 

By  our  thistle  dear,  by  our  mossy  cairns, 
Nought  must  stain  or  cloor  the  faith  o'  Scotia's 
bairns. 

Sae  up  wi'  hodden  gray,  up  wi'  plaid  and  bon 
net  ; 
Native  name  for  aye,  and  blessing  be  upon  it. 


WORK  IS    PRAYER. 

Laborare  est  orare. 

0  GRANT  us  faith  to  work,  and  hope  to  win. 
When    jocund     youthhood's    morning    sun    is 

shining, 

'Tis  time  the  work  of  warfare  to  begin, — 
The  Christian    soldier's  warfare  waged  with 
sin. 

Laborare  est  orare. 

O  Father,  let  our  toil  seem  ever  sweet ! 
When  duty  bids  us  still  the  task  be  plying ; 
The  task  that  brings  us  daily  to  Thy  feet, 
To  catch  new  glimpses  of  Thy  mercy-seat 

Laborare  est  orare. 
Though  stern  the  harvest  toil,  the  day's  work 

long, 
With  thankful  hearts  our  scanty  sheaves  we'll 

gather  ; 

And  strong  in  confidence,  in  trusting  strong, 
Still  with    our    tears  will    mingle    bursts   of 
sons. 


100  WORK  IS  PRAYER. 

Laborare  est  orare. 

We  soon  must  lay  our  earthly  armor  down : 
And  in  the  heavenly  land  are  legions  waiting, 
To  raise  the  choral  welcome  of  renown, 
And  crown  us  with  an  everlasting  crown. 


AULD  JOHNNY   GKAHAM. 

DEAR   Aunty,  what  think   ye  9'   auld   Johnny 
Graham  ? 

The  carle  sae  pawkie  an'  slee ; 
He  wants  a  bit  wifie  to  tent  his  bien  hame, 

An'  the  body  has  ettled  at  me. 

Wi'  bonnet  sae  vaunty  an'  owerlay  sae  clean, 
An'  ribbon  that  wav'd  boon  his  bree, 

He    cam'   doun   the    cleugh    at    the    gloamin' 

yestreen, 
An'  rappit,  and  speer'd  aye  for  me. 

I  bade  him   come   ben  whare  my  minnie,  sae 
thrang, 

Was  birlin'  her  wheel  eidentlie ; 
An'  foul  fa'  the  carle,  he  was  na'  that  lang 

Ere  he  tauld  out  his  errand  to  me. 

"  Hech,  Tibby  lass !  a'  yon  braid  acres  o'  land, 
Wi'  ripe  craps  that  wave  bonnilie, 

An'  muckle   mair  gear  shall  be  at  your  com 
mand, 
Gin  ye  will  look  kindly  on  me. 


102  AULD  JOHNNY  GRAHAM. 

"  Yon  herd  o'  fat  owsen  that  rout  i'  the  glen, 
Thae  naigies  that  nibble  the  lea, 

The  kye  i'  the  sheugh,  an'  the  sheep  i'  the  pen, 
I'll  gie  a',  dear  Tibby,  to  thee. 

"Nae  carkin'  or  toilin'  shall  e'er  to  ye  fa', 
Gin  ye  will  but  buckle  with  me ; 

Wi'  plenty  in  kitchen  and  plenty  in  ha', 
Our  ingle  a  heaven  shall  be. 

"I'll   hap  ye  an'  fend   ye,  and   busk   ye  and 

tend  ye, 

As  couthy  as  couthy  can  be; 
I'll    comfort    an'  cheer   ye,   an'  daut   ye   and 

dear  ye, 
An'  mak'  ye  the  licht  of  my  e'e. 

"  An',  lassie,  I  Ve  goupins  o'  gowd  in  a  stockin', 
Wi'  pearlins  wad  dazzle  your  e'e ; 

A  mettl'd  but  canny  young  yaud  for  the  yokin', 
When  ye  wad  gae  jauntin'  wi'  me. 

"I've    lo'ed   ye,   dear   lassie,  since  first,   a  bit 
bairn, 

Ye  ran  ilka  day  to  meet  me, 
An'  deckit  my  bonnet  wi'  blue  bells  an'  fern, 

Wi'  meikle  glad  daffin  and  glee. 

"  An'  noo  woman  grown,  an'  mensefu'  an'  fair, 
An'  gracefu'  as  gracefu'  can  be, 


AULD  JOHNNY  GRAHAM.  103 

Will  ye  tak'  an    auld   carle,  who   ne'er  had  a 

care 
For  woman,  dear  Tibby,  but  thee  ?  " 

Sae,  Aunty,  ye  see,  I  am  a'  in  a  swither 

What  answer  the  body  to  gi'e  ; 
But  aften  I  wish  he  wad  tak'  my  auld  mither, 

An'  let  puir  young  Tibby  abee. 


A  FIRESIDE  SCENE. 

WHEN   the   sunbeams  o'  fortune  upon   us  are 
sportin' 

We've  plenty  o'  frien's  then  to  daut  us ; 
But  when  siller  is  gane  we  sit  down  alane 

O'er  a  wee  pickle  saut  an'  potatoes. 

The  case  was  just  sae,  wi'  my  mither  an'  me, 
Sae  down  at  the  fireside  we  sat  us ; 

An'  my  auld  mither  sicht,  as   we    sat  at  mid- 

nicht 
O'er  a  wee  pickle  saut  an'  potatoes. 

"  Come,  mither,"  I  cried,  "  lat  you  sorrows  be 

dried ; 

I'm  sure  it  would  unco  ill  set  us 
To    sit    here    an'    gloom,  cause   our  aumry  is 

toom, 
O'er  a  wee  pickle  saut  an'  potatoes." 

THE  GRACE. 

"  Thou  Being  all  good,  who  hath  sent  us  this 

food, 
Thou  who  at  the  first  did  create  us, 


A  FIRESIDE  SCENE.  105 

In  goodness  now  shine,  and  in  mercy  divine, 
Bless  our  wee  pickle  saut  an'  potatoes. 

"Tho'  want  we've   endur'd,  yet  still  we're   as 
sured 

That  Thou  wilt  not  always  forget  us; 
When   siller  is  scant,  Thou  wilt    bless   to  the 

saunt 
His  wee  pickle  saut  an'  potatoes. 

"  Now,  Lord !  we  entreat,  mak'  us  patient  and 

meet 

For  the  joys  and  the  woes  that  await  us ; 
Where  Thy  blessing  is  sent,  lat  us  aye  be  con 
tent 
Wi'  a  wee  pickle  saut  an'  potatoes." 

CONCLUSION. 

"  Come,  mither,  begin,  to  repine  would  be  sin, 

Tho'  little  we  ha'e  to  elate  us, 
Save   light   hearts    an'  leal,  that   sma'  pock  o' 
meal, 

An'  this  wee  pickle  saut  an'  potatoes. 

"  Let   the  wealthy  deride  i'  the  pomp  o'  their 
pride. 

An'  grandeur's  gay  minions  sneer  at  us ; 
Tho'  we  may  look  waur,  we  're  happier  far 

Wi'  our  wee  pickle  saut  an'  potatoes. 


106  A  FIRESIDE  SCENE. 

"An'  when  we  are  laid  in  our  cauld  clayey  bed, 
The  just  an'  the  gude  will  regret  us ; 

Then  let's  ne'er  despair,  altho'  our  best  fare 
Be  a  wee  pickle  saut  an'  potatoes." 


THOU   ART  FAR  AWAY. 

THOU  art  far  away, 
Thou  art  far  away; 

But  thy  image  imprest  on  my  soul  is  so  blest 
And  lovely,  it  ne'er  can  decay. 

I  think  on  thy  soft,  tearful  smile, 

At  parting  so  tenderly  given, 
And  the  lingering  look  then  wistfully  took, 

That  thrilled  like  the  lightning  of  heaven. 

I  gazed  on  the  bright  summer  morn, 
That  looked  from  her  home  in  the  sky, 

And  pensively  said  in  my  fondness  of  soul, 
Perchance  she  now  meets  thy  mild  eye. 

Thou  knowest  my  passion,  how  pure, 

By  many  a  kind  token  proved, 
But   ne'er   till    this   heart-broken    hour    did  I 
dream 

How  fondly  and  deeply  I  loved. 

When  seated  by  those  we  adore, 
The  bosom  may  ecstasy  own ; 


108  THOU  ART  FAR  AWAY. 

But  the  depth  of  affection  we  never  can  know, 
Until  the  beloved  is  gone. 

Thou  art  far  away, 
Thou  art  far  away ; 

But  thy  image  imprest  on  my  soul  is  so  blest 
And  lovely,  it  ne'er  can  decay. 


CHURCH-YARD    THOUGHTS. 

How  soundly  sleep  the  dead 
In  the  chambers  of  their  rest ! 

Every  waking  dream  is  fled, 
Every  care  that  heaved  the  breast, 
All  is  hushed  and  they  are  blest. 

How  soundly  sleep  the  dead! 
The  beloved  heart  is  cold; 

And  the  cheek  where  beauty  played 
Is  enveloped  in  the  hold  • 
Of  the  shroud's  enwrapping  fold. 

How  soundly  sleep  the  dead ! 
Beauty's  ruby  lip  is  blanched, 

And  the  glance  that  lightnings  shed 
The  dark  charnel-damps  hath  drenched, 
And  its  light  forever  quenched. 

How  soundly  sleep  the  dead! 
The  young  lover's  whispered  tale 

Hath  died,  as  down  the  glade 
Dies  the  murmur  of  the  gale  — 
O,  his  manly  cheek,  how  pale ! 


110  CHURCH-YARD   THOUGHTS. 

How  soundly  sleep  the  dead ! 
Even  hushed  the  infant's  cries: 

Now  the  earth's  its  cradle  bed, 
Which  the  night  wind  lullabies : 
And  how  still  the  baby  lies. 

How  soundly  sleep  the  dead ! 
Statesman,  soldier,  sage,  and  bard, 

All,  like  broken  harps,  are  laid 
'Neath  the  silent  dewy  sward  — 
Proud  ambition's  sole  reward. 

Yes,  soundly  sleep  the  dead! 

But  a  shout  shall  rend  the  skies, 

That  will  rouse  them  from  their  bed, 
And  bid  each  sleeper  rise, 
To  attend  Heaven's  dread  assize. 


SCHAMYL. 

[In  the  beginning  of  1840  the  Circassians,  led  by  their  gal 
lant  native  chief,  Schamyl,  with  great  slaughter  defeated  the 
Russians,  commanded  by  General  Godovin,  and  destroyed  all 
their  new  forts ;  since  which  time  the  hordes  of  the  Czar  have 
never  set  foot  among  the  mountain  fastnesses  of  Circassia.] 

HEAR  ye  the  hurricane  sounds  that  come 

From  far-off  mountain  lauds, 
Where  legions  marshal  to  bugle  and  drum, 

And  bondsmen  bare  their  brands? 
Their  fetters  and  fears  to  the  winds  they  have 

given; 

Their  country,  their  homes,  and  their  cause  to 
Heaven ! 

Like  the  desolating  locust  cloud, 

The  spoilers  blight  the  plains, 
And  the  blaze  of  freedom's  sun  they  shroud 

With  carnage,  blood,  and  chains; 
Like  the  rush  of  the  mountain  cataract, 
The  patriot  warriors  shall  bear  them  back. 

How  manhood  spurns  at  the  name  of  slave. 

When  roused  from  slavery's  dream  ! 
How  nerved  the  arm  that  wields  each   glaive, 

With  vengeance  in  its  gleam, 


112  SCHAMYL. 

While  thickly  the  Autocrat's  savage  hordes 
Are  sinking  beneath  their  chivalrous  swords ! 

The  deep-voiced  winds  with  freedom  roam, 

The  waves  with  freedom  roar, 
As  mountain-like  they,  crested,  foam 

To  the  quaking  cliff-bound  shore  ; 
And  the  warrior  land,  late  an  ice-bound  sea, 
Hath  mustered  the   might  of  its  wrath  —  and 
is  free! 


STANZAS  TO   A  CHILD. 

STRANGE  that  this    breathless,  lifeless  thing 

hath  felt 

The  sunshine  of  existence :   can  it  be 
That    music    on  those    bloodless    lips    hath 

dwelt? 

Now  mute  and  fixed  in  cold  frigidity. 
That  smile  of  merriment,  and  lightsome  glee, 
Should     on    that    clammy  marble    cheek 

have  play'd  ? 

Like  sunbeams  dancing  on  the  daisied  lea, 
Or  summer  gales  that  wake  the  primrose 

bed, 

Leaving  no  trace  behind,  yet  lovely  while  they 
stay'd. 

0,  little  dreamt  thy  mother,  on  her  breast, 

As,  cherub-like,  thou  in  thy  childhood  lay, 
That   from   its    shrine,  man's    vi'lent    hands 

would  wrest 

Thy  little  head;   and  widely  to  the  day, 
Each   crevice,  cord,  and   secret   spring   dis 
play- 
That  to  the  earth  its  crimson  stream  would 
fall, 


114  STANZAS   TO  A    CHILD. 

As   drop   the    rose-leaves   from   the    shaken 

spray, 
Or  autumn  berries  from  the  bough,  when 

all 

Sweet  flowers  are  gone,  and  Winter  holds  his 
carnival. 

And  who  is  he  that  stands  beside  thy  clay, 
With    tearless    eye,    and    sees  thy  bosom 

torn? 

That  sullen,  dogged  serf;  let  no  one  say 
He  was  thy  sire,  else  would  the  laugh  of 

scorn 

Light  on  his  leaden  soul ;   the  sun  of  noon 
Ne'er  shone  upon  a  duller  clod  than  he. 
Yet  wherefore    should  we  judge  ?     Though 

he  hath  borne, 

And  still  bears  on  in  mute  tranquillity, 
His   soul  we   cannot    scan,  nor    all    its  secret 
workings  see. 

What   know  we    but    that    soul  with    bitter 

pangs 
Of  noiseless  woe  is  wrung,  though  tearless 

now 
Above  thy  mutilated  frame  he  hangs, 

With  apathy  of  look,  and  scowling  brow, 
As  if  his  heart  were  iron ;   yet  O  how 
Terrible   the    thoughts    that  may  be  war 
ring  there  I 


STANZAS   TO  A    CHILD.  115 

Waters   are   deepest  where   they  smoothest 

flow, 

And  his  may  be  the  calmness  of  despair  — 
A  spirit  steel'd,  misfortune's  stormiest  blasts  to 
bear. 

Misjudge  him  not.     Speaks  not  that  vacant 

eye 

Of  deep  abstraction's  meditative  trance  ? 
Haply  he  ruminates  on  years  gone  by, 

And  at  one  mournful  retrospective  glance, 
Beholds  his  blue-eyed,  rosy  darling,  dance 
In   gladsome   gambols    round  his   cottage 

hearth, 

And  eying  her,  well  pleas'd  with  looks  as 
kance, 

Blesses  the  happy  hour  that  gave  her  birth, 
While   his  low  cottage  rings  with    the    young 
prattler's  mirth. 

'Tis  Sabbath    morning,  and  his    heart  leaps 

high, 
While  with  his  little  one  he  seeks  the 

knoll, 
Dappl'd  with  daisies,  where  the  stream  runs 

by 
The    hazel   bower,  with    soft   meandering 

roll; 
There  while  its  music  steals  into  his  soul, 


116  STANZAS   TO  A    CHILD. 

How  his  eye  glistens  as  he  views  the  wiles 
Of  his  fair  infant  as  she  pours  the  whole 
Fresh,  flowery    treasures  on  him  —  dewy 

spoils 

From   bank   and   lawn  —  and   with  a   father's 
joy  he  smiles. 

He  smiles !    O  do  not  wake   him   from   his 

dream 

Of  thrilling  ecstasy.     The  summer  sun 
Shines  beautifully  on  that  bank ;   its  beam 
Falls    on    his    innocent,    young,  gleesome 

one, 

While  like  a  fawn  she  frolics  in  her  fun ; 
Now  listening    to  'the  brook  —  anon    the 

birds 

Delight  her  infant  soul  —  now  she  hath  run 
And  clasp'd  his  neck  with  lisp'd  affection's 

words ; 

Ha !  dreamer,  wake  and  see  what  misery  earth 
to  thee  affords. 

0  what  a  sorrow-breeding   life  is  this, 
Teeming  with  ailments,  evils,  groans,  and 

tears ; 

A  lazar-house  of  trouble  and  distress,  — 
A  pilgrimage  of  "  few  and  evil  years ; " 
Or  if  one  pleasure  'mid  the  waste  appears, 
'Tis  but  to  cheat  us ;  and  when  we  would 
clutch 


STANZAS   TO  A   CHILD.  117 

The  lovely  thing  which   beauty's   semblance 

wears, 

Even  for  its  very  frailty  prized  so  much, 
Then  like  a  blighted  flower  it  withers  at  our 
touch. 

We  come  into  this  weary  world  in  tears ; 
Leave  it  in  lamentation ;   and  between, 
A  fearful  track  of  sin  and  suffering  rears 
Its   hideous    length  —  a  sorrow-checkered 

scene, 

Where  pleasure's  glimpses  briefly  intervene, 
Like    lightning's    flicker  in  the    midnight 

gloom, 

Cool  fountains  in  the  desert,  spots  of  green 
And    sunny  verdure,  living  flowers  whose 

bloom 

But    give   a  darker    shade    of   terror  to    the 
tomb. 

It    was    not    so    with    thee,   thou    blighted 

flower ; 

Thy  April  sun  in  smiles  a  moment  shone, 
Seeming  to  promise  many  a  blissful  hour 
Of   cloudless    beauty;    now   the    spell    is 

gone, 

And  thou  art  shrouded,  coffined,  and  anon 
The    yawning    grave  will    hide  thee  from 
our  eyes, 


118  STANZAS    TO  A    CHILD. 

And  thou  wilt  slumber  soundly  and  alone, 
Unheeding  aught  that  passeth  'neath   the 

skies, 

'Till   the    archangel's   summons   bids  the  dead 
arise. 


SCOTLAND. 

0  THE  bonny  hills  o'  Scotland!  I  think  I  see 
them  noo, 

Wi'  robes  o'  purple  heather  bloom  and  rugged 
-     peaks  of  blue, 

Where    mountain    glen    is    ringing    wi'   shep 
herd's  melodic, 

While   laverock   upward  winging  is  not    more . 
blithe  than  he. 

0  the  flowery  howns  o'  Scotland,  her  haughs 

and  gowany  braes, 
Where    blooming,  lovesome    maidens   barefoot 

are  bleaching  claes, 
And  gleesome   bairns  are    skirling,  and   tenty 

carlines  scauld, 
And  rosy  health  is  glowing  on  cheek  o'  young 

and  auld! 

To  the  bonnie  streams  o'  Scotland,  her  lochs 

and  wimplin'  burns, 
My  waking  visions  wander,  my  sleeping   love 

returns ; 
And  there  the  birken  sheeling  to  fancy  comes 

again, 
Wi'  Jean  at  gloamin'   stealing  to  meet   me  i' 

the  glen. 


120  SCOTLAND. 

O  the  storied    fields  of  Scotland    are   fraught 

,  3 

with  battle  lore, 

They're  rife  with  Roman  mem'ries,  they're 
rank  with  Danish  gore  ; 

And  lion-hearted  "Wallace  wight,  the  flower  of 
chivalrie, 

And  Bruce  of  Bannockburn,  shall  ne'er  for 
gotten  be. 

0  the  holy  men  of  Scotland,  that  muster'd 
in  their  might 

To  breast  corruption's  torrent  spate,  and  battle 
for  the  right ! 

Each  spot  rever'd  where  freely  forth  their  sa 
cred  lives  were  given, 

Shall  ever,  like  an  altar  fane,  send  incense 
sweet  to  heaven. 

0  thrice  beloved   Scotia !   my  honored  mither 

dear, 
A  wanderer's  bosom  truly  beats  for  thee  from 

year  to  year; 
And  when   this   mortal    pilgrimage  his  weary 

feet  hath  trod, 
He    fain  would  tak   his  final    sleep  beneath  a 

Scottish  sod. 


SONG. 

A  PROUD  heart  'neath  a  needy  coat, 

O'  ane  o'  laigh  degree, 
A  happy  ha',  an'  humble  lot, 

Yet  wha  daur  meddle  wi'  me  ? 

For  painted  room  or  lordly  bower 

A  preen  I  wad  nae  gie, 
But  place  my  fit  on  mountain  flower       « 

Then  wha  daur  meddle  wi'  me? 

For  in  my  soul  a  something  thrills 

All  fetterless  and  free, 
As  blasts  that  sweep  my  native  hills, 

Then  wha  daur  meddle  wi'  me  ? 

There's  king  and  country,  knights    an'  cairds, 

An'  men  o'  ilk  degree, 
Dukes,  tinkers,  statesmen,  leals  and  lairds, 

But  wha  daur  meddle  wi'  me  ? 

Here's  to  my  frien's,  here's  to  my  faes, 

An'  here's  to  Ochiltree; 
God  bless  him  wheresoe'er  he  gaes, 

An'  wha  daur  meddle  wi'  me? 


TOUJOURS  LA   MEME. 

As  gathers  the  night  when  the  sun  seeks  the 

sea, 

So,  darkness,  my  spirit  when  parted  from  thee, 
Then  folds  up  the  daisy  in  silence  alone, 
To  weep  'mid  the  dews  when   the   day -god  is 

gone; 

And  here  in  the  wildwood  I  whisper  thy  name, 
And .  sigh    to   the    summer  wind,  Toujours  la 

meme. 

Toujours  la  meme,  Mary,  far  in  the  wild, 

I  see  thee  before  me  as  last  when  thou  smiled ; 

Thy    rosy   looks   glowing    with    goodness    and 

love, 
As   beams  the   May    moon   from   the   heaven 

above ; 
And    spurning    ambition,   and    grandeur,    and 

fame, 
My  soul  to  thee  turning,  love,  Toujours  la  meme. 


HYMN. 

LORD  of  the  sunshine,  cloud,  and  shower, 
Who  swayest  nature  with  Thy  nod, 

All  space  is  Thine,  all  life,  all  power, 
Thou  glorious,  wonder-working  God. 

All  things  are  Thine  —  all  days,  all  years, 
All  seasons  with  their  varied  change ; 

All  worlds  within  their  countless  spheres 
Throughout  creation's  boundless  range. 

Thy  chariot-path  is  on  the  clouds, 
Thy  footsteps  on  the  ocean-foam, 

And  darkness  as  a  curtain  shrouds 
Thy  awful  cloud-pavilion'd  home. 

Yet  though  in  quenchless  glory  there 

Thou,  God,  hast  made  Thy  dwelling  place, 

Still  as  a  father  dost  Thou  care 

For  all  that  breathe  of  Adam's  race. 


SONG. 

0  WERE  I  but  beside  thee,  love, 
Where  thou  art  soundly  sleeping, 

No  ills  would  then  betide  me,  love, 
Whose  eyes  are  dim  with  weeping, 
My  watch  of  sorrow  keeping. 

Sound  be  thy  rest  and  soft,  love, 
That  sleep   that  knows  no  waking, 

Whose  calm  I  envy  oft,  love, 
When  wild  with  sorrow  aching, 
My  lonely  heart  is  breaking. 

There  is  one  soothing  thought,  love, 
Which  God  to  man  hath  given ; 

With  tranquil  bliss  'tis  fraught,  love, 
To  hearts  with  sorrow  riven, 
Whose  only  hope  is  heaven. 

It  points  beyond  the  tomb,  love, 

It  beckons  to  the  skies, 
Where  sorrow  cannot  come,  love, 

To  mar  the  endless  joys 

Of  God's  own  paradise. 


THE  BEREAVED. 

IN  vain  the  mourner  seeks  to  roam, 
He  cannot  fly  from  care  and  pain ; 

The  ills  that  urged  him  from  his  home, 
Compel  him  home  again. 

What  boots  it  that  his  faded  eye 

O'er  nature's  face  with  rapture  ranged? 

The  spirit's  ailment  cannot  die, 
And  he  returns  unchanged. 

The  bliss,  that  friendship  for  an  hour, 
Like  sunshine  to  his  bosom  gave, 

Passed  as  the  dew-drop  from  the  flower, 
The  moonbeam  from  the  wave." 

He  flew  to  fields  and  valleys  green 
That  former  ecstasy  had  given, 

But  she,  the  angel  of  the  scene, 
Had  winged  her  way  to  heaven. 

The  glorious  scenes  he  gazed  upon  — 
"Wood,  river,  mountain,  lake,  and  dell  — 

Woke  in  his  soul  one  thrilling  tone 
Of  pleasure  with  their  spell. 


FAREWELL. 

FAREWELL  !  that  fond  and  love-fraught  word, 

Whose  talismanic  power 
Awakens  many  a  thrilling  chord 

Has  slumber'd  till  that  hour : 
When  like  a  rich  ^Eolian  strain, 
Affection  gushes  forth  again. 

Tis  heard  above  the  wild  hurrah, 
When  charging  squadrons  meet, 

And  those  who  fall  amid  the  spray, 
Are  trodden  under  feet. 

From  many  a  bosom  gashed  and  gored, 

Is  moan'd  that  one  love-breathing  word. 

In  prayer  the  warrior  utters  it, 

Before  the  battle  fray  ; 
In  tears  the  sailor  mutters  it, 

When  wjngs  his  bark  away. 
Upon  the  whitening  surge's  swell 
He  flings  to  home  his  fond  farewell. 

When  o'er  the  ship,  with  wrathful  roar, 
The  blackening  waters  boom, 


FAREWELL.  127 

Shrouding  the  fated  seamen  o'er, 

Their  winding  sheet  and  tomb ; 
Then  high  above  the  tempest's  yell 
Is  heard  their  anguished  shriek  —  farewell! 

By  the  believer's  bed  of  death 

If  thou  hast  ever  stood, 
And  marked  how  calmly  firm  his  faith, 

How  tranquil  was  his  mood ; 
His  spirit  longs  with  God  to  dwell; 
Yet  lingers  still  to  say,  farewell! 

The  exile  weeping  on  the   deck, 

While  gazing  on  his  home, 
Now  slowly  lessening  to  a  speck, 

Now  lost  amid  the  foam, 
Still  thinks  he  hears  his  own  adored 
Maria  breathe  that  mournful  word.         * 

Thou  sweetly  melancholy  sound, 

Composed  of  sobs  and  sighs  ; 
Giver  of  many  a  cureless  wound 

No  skill  can  cicatrize: 
Breaker  of  many  a  blissful  spell, 
All  —  all  must  breathe  thy  name  —  Farewell. 


AULD  HAWKIE. 

AULD  Hawkie's  hame  again, 
Honest  Hawkie  's  hame  again ; 
Wife  an'  weans  are  fidgin  fain, 
To  tent  auld  Horny  hame  again. 

Our  cogs  o'  parritch,  soups  o'  kail, 
Our  blauds  o'  scones,  an'  clauts  o'  meal, 
Her  bountith  moistens  now  like  rain, 
Since  sonsy  Hawkie's  hame  again. 

In  simmer  days  wi'  milk  an'  baps, 

An'  dauds  o'  cheese,  we  filled   our  craps, 

An'  mony  a  benison  wad  sain, 

On  Hawkie  that 's  come  hame  again. 

Auld  Hawkie 's  hame  again, 
Canny  Hawkie  's  hame  again  ; 
There 's  laughin'  but  and  daffin'  ben : 
The  dear  auld  beast's  come  back  again. 

We'll  feast  our  frien's,  forgie  our  faes, 
Fill  up  our  quaichs,  forget  our  waes, 
And  Philip  Fairly,  wale  o'  men, 
Shall  rant,  noo  Hawkie  's  hame  again. 


AULD  HAWK  IE.  129 

Auld  Hawkie  's  hame  again, 
Douce  Hawkie 's  hame  again; 
Happit  snug  frae  snaw  an'  rain, 
She'll  never  mair  gae  wa'  again, 


A  MIDNIGHT  SKETCH. 

THE  night  is  cauld,  the  fire  is  out, 
The  wind  has  blawn  awa'  the  cloot, 
I  stappit  in  aneath  the  door 
To  stem  its  bitter  bite  and  roar. 

That  broken  pane  has  loot  the  blast 
Blaw  out  my  winkin'  lamp  at  last, 
An'  left  me  i'  the  midnight  £loom 
Wi'  eerie  thoughts   and  aumry  toom. 

The  sea  is  souchin'  deep  and  loud ; 
The  masts  are  wavin'  like  a  wood 
O'  leafless  trees,  whose  sobbings  seem 
Like  drowning  seaman's  anguish'd  scream. 

The  moon  is  struggling  through  the  lift, 
Like  bark  upon  the  deep  adrift,  — 
Now  seen  —  and  now  the  bick'ring  clouds 
Wi'  death-like  pall  her  beauty  shrouds. 

Hark !   how  the  kirkbell's  drowsy  boom 
Comes  knelling  through  the  mirky  gloom. 
An'  now  'tis  hushed  —  hark  !   there  again 
It  rings  aboon  the  wind  and  rain. 


A  MIDNIGHT  SKETCH.  131 

High  ower  the  craigs  in  deafenin'  dash 
The  big  waves  hurry,  crash  on  crash, 
Till  a'  the  house,  though  on  a  rock, 
Is  quakin'  in  the  awesome  shock. 

Lord  of  the  sea !  amid  the  stoure 
Of  nature's  stormy  revel  hour, 
Beneath  Thy  shelterin'  wing  I'll  creep, 
And  lay  me  down  in  peace  to  sleep. 

Yea,  though  the  troubled  deep  should  roar 
In  yeasty  mountains  to  the  shore, 
And  wind  and  rain,  an'  sheeted  licht 
Disturb  the  stormy  brow  of  nicht. 

Yea,  strong  in  confidence  I'll  cower 
Beneath  Thy  mighty  arm  of  power, 
And  hope  the  comin'  morn  will  smile 
Awa'  the  wrathful  night's  turmoil. 


SONG. 

TO    MART. 

MART,  the    bright    star   of  twilight    is    beam 
ing 

Calmly  in  beauty  from  out  the  blue  sky. 
While  the  young  moon  through  the  beech-grove 

is  gleaming, 
"Walking  her  pathway  in  glory  on  high. 

Hark  to  the  merle  his  vesper-hymn  singing, 
Hid  in  the  rose-bower  down  in  the  vale, 
While   every  flower    from   its  bosom   is  fling 
ing 

Fragrance    and  balm   on   the   wings  of  the 
gale. 

Bright   in    the   streamlet  the   moonbeams  are 

dancing. 
Light  thro'  the  birch  shade  the  breeze  softly 

sighs ; 

Clear  on  the  bluebell  the  dew-drops  are  glan 
cing 
Beautiful,  love,  as  thy  tale-telling  eyes. 


SONG.  133 

Come  in  thy  beauty,  then,  come  in  thy  splen 
dor, 

Come  in  thy  loveliness   pure  and  serene ; 
Xow  thy  light  form,  so  bewitchingly  tender, 
Clasped  to  my  soul,  makes  a  heaven  of  the 
scene. 


SONG. 

TONE  —  "  Nid  jVafin'." 

0  THEY'RE  a'  smilin', 

Cheerily  smilin', 
They're  a'  smilin' 

At  our  house  at  hame. 

Blessing  on  the  bairnies, 

Blessing  on  their  dame, 
Blessing  on  the  kind  hearts 

That  wait  my  comin'  hame. 

For  they're  a'  smilin',  etc. 

When  at  e'en  I  wander, 

Hameward  o'er  the  lea, 
Then  my  heart  grows  fain 

For  the  looks  I  lo'e  to  see. 

For  they're  a'  smilin',  etc. 

Leeze  me  on  the  gloamin', 

Wi'  its  dewy  flowers, 
Leeze  me  on  the  blackbird, 

That  bigs  amang  the  bowers, 

Where  they're  a'  smilin',  etc. 


SONG.  135 

Ste'en  and  Archie  's  dancin' 
Wi'  Jeanie  through  the  ha', 

Little  Johnnie  's  prancin', 
The  merriest  o'  a'. 

An'  they're  a'  smilin',  etc. 

Round  the  knowe  I  wend 
As  the  sun  gaes  to  the  sea. 

0  Johnny  dear,  ye're  welcome  ! 
Ye're  welcome,  love,  to  me. 

For  we're  a*  smilin' 

Cheerily  smilin', 
We're  a'  smilin', 

At  our  house  at  hame. 


TO   ORYNTHIA. 

IMAGE  of  my  beloved  one,  why 

Art  thou  forever  in  my  sight, 
With  that  calm,  thoughtful  forehead  high, 

Round  which  the  ringlets,  dark  as  night, 
Repose  in  many  a  glossy  tress 
Of  bright  luxurious  loveliness  ? 

It  is  thy  silver  voice  I  hear, 

Replying  softly  to  my  own, 
And  I  can  fancy  thou  art  near, 

And  only  thou  and  I  alone, 
And  words  of  love  are  breathed,  alas 
That  never  can  between  us  pass. 

I  fold  thee  in  my  arms  once  more, 

Our  lips  with  murmured  rapture  meeting, 
And  feel,  as  I  have  felt  of  yore, 
•     Beside  my  own  thy  bosom  beating ; 
And  round  me  thy  young  arms   are  twined, 
As  death  had  ne'er  the  link  disjoined. 

That  full  bright  eye  of  deepest  blue 
Is  turned  upon  me,  and  its  glance 


TO    ORYNTH1A.  137 

Comes  thrilling  all  my  spirit  through, 

With  its  love-lightning  radiance ; 
Yet  chaste,  even  in  the  fondest  hour, 
As  dew-drop  on  the  lily  flower. 

My  own  adored  one,  thou  and  I 
On  earth  again  can  never  meet ; 

But  O !  methinks  'twere  sweet  to  die 
With  faith  unchanging  at  thy  feet, 

And,  breathing  out  my  soul  in  prayer, 

Arise  to  heaven  to  meet  thee  there. 


THE  REFUGE., 

"  Whom  have  I  in  heaven  but  thee  ?  "    Psalm  Ixxiii.  25. 

BUT  Thee,  0  God,  but  Thee, 
To  whom  shall  I  address 
My  wail  of  deep  distress  ? 
Thou  only  who   canst  see 
My  spirit's  brokenness ; 
Thou  only,  who  alone  canst  heal 
The  pangs  I  bear,  the  ills  I  feel. 

To  Thee,  O  God !  to  Thee, 
With  lowly  heart  I  bend  ; 
Lord,  to  my  prayer  attend, 
And  haste  to  succor  me, 

Thou  never-failing  Friend ! 
For  seas  of  trouble  o'er  me  roll, 
And  whelm  with  fears  my  sinking  soul. 

From  Thee,  0  God!  from  Thee, 
By  phantom  passions  led, 
Like  him  of  old1  I  fled! 

Saying,  This  earth  shall  be 
To  me  a  heaven  instead ; 
1  Jonah. 


THE  REFUGE.  139 

But  then  didst  Thou  in  mercy  thrust 
My  earthly  idol  to  the  dust. 

On  Thee,  0  God!  on  Thee, 
With  humble  hope  I'll  lean  — 
Thou  who  hast  ever  been 
A  hiding-place  to  me, 

In  many  a  troubl'd  scene  — 
Whose  heart,  with  love  and  mercy  fraught, 
Back  to  the  fold  Thy  wand'rer  brought. 


THE   HOMESICK. 

THE  blue-eyed  sailor-boy  hath  left  his  child 
hood's  happy  home, 

And  the  high,  and  stern,  and  heath-clad  hills 
his  spirit  loved  to  roam  ; 

Around  his  weeping  mother's  neck  his  arms  he 
fondly  threw, 

And  kissed  his  weeping  sisters  three,  and  to 
the  beach  he  flew. 

One  parting  cheer  to  native  home  the  gallant 
seaman  gave, 

When  like  a  deer  the  stately  bark  went  bound 
ing  o'er  the  wave. 

To  lands  far  in  the  sunny  west  the  sailor-boy 
is  gone, 

While  like  a  star  the  light  of  hope  within  his 
bosom  shone. 

Years  waned  away,  and  many  a  shore  the  sailor- 
boy  had  seen, 

But  fortune  smiled  upon  his  path,  where'er  his 
bark  had  been ; 

For  many  a  deed  of  high  emprise  and  daring 
he  hath  done, 

And  his  good  ship  from  England's  foes  for 
guerdon  he  hath  won. 


THE  HOMESICK.  141 

He  wander'd    long    in    distant  lands,  until  his 

manhood's  prime, 
And  then  began  his  soul  to  droop  beneath  the 

torrid  clime; 
While    thick    upon    his    brooding    thoughts    a 

gloomy  twilight  crept, 
And  like  a  lone,  forsaken  thing  he  sat  him  down 

and  wept. 

He  reck'd  not  of  the  glory  of  their  gorgeous 

tropic  flowers ; 
Unheeded  were  their  orange  groves  and  incense 

breathing  bowers : 
His  soul  was  sick  of  foreign  climes,  and  longed 

again  to  roam 
The  breezy  hills  that  beautified  his  ocean-girdled 

home. 

He  thought  upon  the  thrilling  strains  his  fair 
young  sisters  sung, 

And  the  magic  of  each  melody  still  in  his 
mem'ry  rung; 

He  heard  his  wild-wood's  minstrelsy,  and  from 
his  native  hills 

Would  dream  he  heard  the  voices  of  the  joy 
ous  summer  rills. 

He  gaz'd  upon  his  goodly  bark,  that  proudly  in 
the  bay 


142  THE  HOMESICK. 

Loomed  like  a  beauteous  ocean-bird  to  bear  him 

far  away ; 
Away   before   the   wakening  gale,  away   upon 

the  sea ! 
With    canvas    spread,   and    home    ahead,    his 

spirit  longed  to  be. 

But  o'er  his  faded  eye  a  dim  and  hazy  dark 
ness  came, 

And  sickness  with  tornado's  speed  shot  through 
his  burning  frame ; 

He  heeded  not  his  sobbing  crew,  that  round 
their  leader  crowd : 

His  noble  bark  awaits,  but  he  is  sleeping  in 
his  shroud. 

They  laid  him  by  the  waveless  deep,  where 
high  the  stately  palm 

Stands  in  its  hermit  solitude  amid  the  breath 
less  calm ; 

And  when  the  breeze  of  even-tide  comes  moan 
ing  from  the  main, 

It  stirs  the  feathery  branches  with  a  low  and 
dirge-like  strain. 

There  sleeps  the  fair-haired  mariner,  far  in  the 

burning  west, 
With   summer's  glorious  garniture  above    his 

place  of  rest ; 


THE  HOMESICK.  143 

There  slumbers  he,  the  fearless  one,  the  brave, 

yet  gentle-souled : 
0  who  would  seek  a  foreign  clime,  or  sigh  for 

foreign  gold? 


LIZZY  LASS. 

LIZZY  lass,  Lizzy  lass, 
Look  but  in  this  keeking  glass, 
There  the  faultless  form   you'll  see 
Dearest  in  this  world  to  me : 
Eye  of  azure,  brow  of  snow, 
Cheeks  that  mock  the  roses'  glow, 
Lips  whose  smiles  all  smiles  surpass, 
These  are  thine,  dear  Lizzy  lass. 

Lizzy  lass,  Lizzy  lass, 
Deeply  in  this  siller  tass, 
Brimming  with  the  ruby  wine, 
Let  me  pledge  to  thee  and  thine. 
Youth  may  vanish,  eye  grow  dim, 
Age  creep  over  heart  and  limb; 
But  till  life  away  shall  pass, 
I  will  love  thee,  Lizzy  lass. 


SONG. 

O  LIST,  lady,  list,  to  the  sad  music  ringing 
From  yonder   lone    spot  in  the  valley    you 

see: 
'Tis   Patrick    O'Connor's    own    Norah   a-sing- 

ing, 

To   lull    the   sweet   baby   that   sits   on   her 
knee. 

Around   her  neat  cabin-door    tenderly  wreath 
ing, 

The   gay  honeysuckle  fantastically  blooms; 
While  by  her   low  lattice    all    balmily  breath 
ing, 

Sweet-briers  and  jessamine  blend  their  per 
fumes. 

Poor  Patrick,  God   bless  him !  was    scarce    a 

week  wedded 
When    cruelly   fettered    and    fbrced  to   the 

main, 

While  Norah,  sweet  girl,  like  a  fair  lily,  faded, 
And  ne'er  thought  to  see  her  dear  Patrick 
again. 

10 


146  SONG. 

And  oft,  when  the  merry  lark  wakens  the  mor 
row, 
Poor    Norah   you'll    find    busy    plying    her 

wheel, 

And  pensively  singing   such   sad  notes  of  sor 
row 

As  tears  from  the  hardest  of  natures  might 
steal. 

And  thus  crawls  one  weary  week  after  another, 
No  friend  with  poor  Norah  to  weep  or  con 
dole. 
Bu$  where  hies  that  stranger  in  haste  ?    Holy 

Mother ! 

Tis  Patrick  himself — now  she's  clasped  to 
his  soul. 


SONG. 

0  BUT  he's  an  auld  body ! 

0  but  he's  a  cauld  body ! 
How  could  I  gie  heed  to  him  ? 

Puir  fusionless  twafawld  body. 
0  mither,  dinna  break  my  heart; 

1  canna  bide  his  wooin' ; 
Gowd  canna  hide,  nor  yet  can  art, 

The  back  wi'  auld  age  bowin.'- 
O  but  he's  an  auld  body,  etc. 

A  fitless  stap,  a  feckless  arm, 
Wi'  een  baith  blind  an'  bleery, 

Are  unco  pithless  spells  to  charm 
A  lassie  young  an'  cheery. 
0  but  he's  an  auld  body,  etc. 

Sae  mither,  mither,  ban  nae  mair, 
I  canna  bide  his  clavers; 

Wha  for  a  wooer's  vows  wad  care, 

Whase  voice  wi'  dotage  wavers? 

O  but  he's  an  auld  body,  etc. 

Ye  wadna  seek  the  rose  o'  June 
'Mid  snell  December's  snawin', 


148  SONG. 

Nor  listen  to  the  goudspink's  tune 
When  Beltane  winds  are  blawin'. 
0  but  he's  an  auld  body,  etc. 

Nor  wad  ye  look  in  ee  o'  eild 
For  love's  saft  glamour  beamin', 

Or  trow  that  doited  pow  could  yield 
To  youth's  delightful  dreamin'. 
0  but  he's  an  auld  body,  etc. 


JEANIE  GRAHAM. 

SHE  whose  lang,  loose,  unbraided  hair 

Falls  on  a  breast  o'  purest  snaw, 
Was  ance  a  maid  as  mild  an'  fair 

As  e'er  wil'd  stripling's  heart  awa. 
But  sorrow's  shade  has  dimm'd  her  ee, 

And  gather'd  round  her  happy  hame; 
Yet  'wherefore  sad  ?  and  where  is  he, 

The  plighted  love  of  Jeanie  Grahata  ? 

The  happy  bridal  day  was  near, 

And  blithe  young  joy  beam'd  on  her  brow ; 
But  he  is  low  she  lov'd  so  dear, 

And  she  a  virgin  widow  now. 
The  night  was  mirk,  the  stream  was  high, 

And  deep  and  darkly  down  it  came ; 
He  sunk  —  and  wild  his  drowning  cry 

Rose  in  the  blast  to  Jeanie  Graham. 

Bright  beams  the  sun  on  Garnet  Hill ; 

The  stream  is  calm,  the  sky  is  clear ; 
But  Jeanie's  lover's  heart  is  still  — 

Her  anguish'd  sobs   he  cannot  hear. 


150  JEANIE   GRAHAM. 

0  make  his  grave  in  yonder  dell, 

Where  willows  wave  above  the  stream. 

That  every  passing  breeze  may  wail 
For  broken-hearted  Jeanie  Graham. 


THE  BEATIFIED  CHILD. 

WHY  are  you  sad,  dearest  mother? 

Why  do  you  sigh  and  weep  ? 
And  wherefore  does  baby  brother 

Lie  there  so  long  asleep  ? 

And  why  are  those  white  clothes  round  him. 
And  in  those  long  white  bands? 

Why  have  you  so  closely  bound  him, 
And  hidden  his  little  hands? 

He  is  pale,  pale,  dearest  mother, 

And  wakes  not  now  at  all ; 
Though  I  kiss  him,  and  call,  "  Wake,  brother ! " 

He  heeds  not  kiss  nor  call. 

On  tiptoe  to-day  I  hastened 

At  morning  hour  of  prayer, 
And  long  by  his   couch  I  listened, 

But  not  a  breath  was  there. 

And  then  methought  you  would  wake  him, 

When  from  his  cradle  bed 
You,  weeping,  softly  did  take  him, 

And  in  that  dark  chest  laid. 


152  THE  BEATIFIED   CHILD. 

Yet  sweet  little  baby  stirred  not, 
Though  o'er  his  couch  you  hung ; 

Nor  breath  nor  cry  we  heard   not, 
While  evening  psalm  we  sung. 

But  there,  like  a  pale  rose  blighted 

By  winter's  nipping  chill, 
He  lay  on  that  cold  couch  sheeted, 

In  slumber  still,  still,  still ! 

Why,  dearest  mother,  are  you  weeping  ? 

Is  darling  baby  dead? 
Is  it  death's  long  sleep  he  is  sleeping, 

That  you  mourn  o'er  his  bed? 

0 !  then  let  us  pray,  dear  mother, 

Unto  our  Saviour,  God, 
That  at  death  we  may  meet  baby  brother, 

And  share  his  blessed  abode. 


LAURA'S  SMILE. 

FAIR  Laura's  smile,  sweet  Laura's  smile, 
Is  fraught  with  many  an  artless  wile  : 
Unchanged  on  me  it  fondly  beams, 
And  fills  my  soul  with  blissful  dreams. 
Fair  Laura's  love,  fair  Laura's  smile, 
Oft  makes  me  wander  many  a  mile, 
Through  pathless  moors  at  midnight  drear, 
To  pour  my  love-tale  in  her  ear. 

Fair  Laura's  smile,  sweet  Laura's  smile,  etc. 

Her  eyes,  that  mock  the  diamond's  blaze, 
Ne'er  charm  so  much  my  doating  gaze, 
As  the  soft,  soul-entrancing  wile 
That  revels  in  her  rosy  smile  ; 
And  yet  the  bashful,  timid  glance, 
Of  those  blue  eyes'  irradiance, 
In  all  their  power  of  witchery, 
Might  tempt  an  angel  from  the  sky. 

Fair  Laura's  smile,  sweet  Laura's  smile,  etc 

Thy  Leila's  eyes  are  mild  and  bright 
Like  twin  stars  in  a  summer  night, 
When  earth  and  sky  are  hushed  and  calm, 
And  every  floweret  breathing  balm. 


154  LAURAS  SMILE. 

Yes !   beauteous  is  their  beam,  I  own, 
As  e'er  on  raptured  lover  shone ; 
But  yet  they  want  the  winning  wile 
That  dimples  in  fair  Laura's  smile. 

Fair  Laura's  smile,  sweet  Laura's  smile,  etc. 

'Tis  not  the  cheek's  soft,  sunny  glow, 
The  heaving  bosom's  stainless  snow, 
The  form  which  youth  and  love  array, 
To  which  the  heart  doth  homage  pay. 
No !  'tis  the  gentle,  pitying  look, 
Which  praise  or  blame  unmoved  can  brook ; 
The  glistening  eye,  and  soothing  tone, 
Which  makes  another's  woes  its  own. 

Fair  Laura's  smile,  sweet  Laura's  smile,  etc. 

With  her  the  humblest  rustic  shed 
That  ever  sheltered  peasant's  head, 
Would  be  a  shrine  of  love  the  while, 
If  brightened  by  her  angel  smile. 
Fair  Laura's  smile,  sweet  Laura's  smile, 
Is  fraught  with  many  an  artless  wile : 
Unchanged  on  me  it  fondly  beams, 
And  fills  my  soul  with  blissful  dreams. 


O   BLESSING   ON    HER    STAR-LIKE   EEN. 

O  BLESSING  on  her  star-like  een, 

Wi'  their  glance  o'  love  divine: 
And  blessing  on  the  red,  red  lip, 

Was  press'd  yestreen  to  mine  ! 

Her  braided  locks  that  waved  sae  light, 
As  she  danced  through  the  lofty  ha', 

Were  like  the  cluds  on  the  brow  o'  night, 
Or  the  wing  o'  the  hoodie  craw. 

O  mony  a  jimp  an'  gentle  dame, 

In  jewel'd  pomp  was  there  ; 
But  she  was  first  amang  them  a', 

In  peerless  beauty  rare. 

Her  bosom  is  a  holy  shrine, 

Unstain'd  by  mortal  sin, 
An'  spotless  as  the  snaw-white  foam, 

On  the  breast  o'  the  siller  linn. 

Her   voice  — hae    ye    heard   the    goudspink's 
note, 

By  bowery  glen  or  brake? 
Or  listen'd  ye  e'er  to  the  mermaid's  lay 

By  sea  or  mountain  lake  ? 


156      0  BLESSING   ON  HER  STAR-LIKE  EEN. 

Hae  ye  dreamt  ye  heard,  i'  the  bower  o'  heaven, 

The  angels'  melodic  ? 
Or  fancied  ye  listened  the  sang  o'  the  spheres 

As  they  swung  on  their  path  on  hie  ? 

Far  sweeter  to  me  was  her  lay  o'  love, 

At  the  gloamin'  hour  yestreen ; 
An'  O !   were  I  king  o'  the  whole  warld  wide, 

I  would  mak'  that  maiden  my  queen. 


SONG. 

TUNE  —  "  Will  ye  go  to  the  ewebughta,  Marion?" 

SWEETLY  the  wild  gray  gloaming 
Steals  o'er  yon  auld  castle  wa'. 

Let  us,  my  lassie,  be  roaming 
Adown  by  the  greenwood  shavv. 

There  i'  the  birken  sheeling, 
Twined  by  mysel'  yestreen, 

Far  frae  the  rude  -and  unfeeling, 
We  will  recline  us  unseen. 

Saftly  the  mild  dew's  fa'in', 
Clear  on  the  greenwood  bower, 

Sweetly  the  mild  rose  is  blawin' 
Wi'  mony  a  fragrant  flower. 

Come  then,  my  love,  let  us  wander, 
Awa'  to  the  flowery  down, 

Far  frae  the  warldlings  wha  squander 
Their  hours  i'  the  dinsome  town. 

O!   but  my  native  valleys, 
Wi'  thee,  my  ain  dear  Jean, 

Are  sweeter  to  me  than  the  palace, 
Tho'  glitterin'  wi'  gouden  sheen. 


LIZZY   LORKIMER. 

Is  dear  Lizzy  brawley  and  cheerie  ? 

Is  kind  Lizzy  canty  at  hame? 
Aye  etlin'  to  mak'  ithers  happy, 

The  blithe-hearted,  kind-hearted  dame  ? 

Her  smile  is  sae  lightsome  an'  winning, 
Her  voice  sae  enticin'  an'  sweet, 

Enraptured  I  gladly  could  listen 
The  lang  simmer  day  at  her  feet. 

To  think  o'  her  cheers  my  dark  moments, 
To  sing  o'  her  chases  my  pain, 

To  dream  o'  her  is  to  be  blessed, 
For  then  she  is  wholly  my  ain.  . 

She  rates  me  an'  preaches  o'  prudence, 
She  cows  me  in  holy  reproof, 

Until  I  conclude  she's  an  angel, 
An'  I  baith  a  culprit  an'  coof. 

If  lovin'  be  sic  a  transgression, 
0  how  can  I  e'er  be  forgiven ! 

Yet  certes  ane  fairly  may  doubt  it  — 
Since  loving 's  the  business  o'  heaven. 


LIZZY  LORRIMER.  159 

There's  Abraham,  Isaac,  an'  Jacob 
Lo'ed  women,  as  well  we  a'  ken ; 

An'  were  I  but  snugly  beside  them. 
I  think  I  fu'  brawly  might  fen'. 

The  priest  he  cries,  "  Dinna  think  on  her ! " 
The  lawyer  cries  "  Ditto  !  "  to  that ; 

But  gin  I  esteem  her  wi'  honor, 
What  dei'l  wad  the  gomrals  be  at  ? 

I  love  her  because  she  is  loving ; 

I  love  her  because  she  is  true ; 
An'  she,  on  my  loyalty  leaning, 

Shall  never  ha'e  reason  to  rue. 

Then  here's  to  her  heart-winning  sweetness, 
And  here's  to  her  goodness  and  truth,  — 

Those  charms  that  know  no  decaying, 
Outlasting  baith  beauty  and  youth. 


TO   LIZZY. 

I  LOVE  ye,  gentle  Lizzy, 

With  a  pure  and  holy  flame ; 
I  love  ye,  darling  Lizzy, 

With  a  love  that  none  can  blame. 
The  very  air  around  ye,  love, 

Breathes  odors  unto  me, 
And  all  that's  loving,  kind,  and  true, 

Seems  met  in  Lizzy  Lee. 

Though  graceful  is  the  heath-bell, 

The  lily  on  the  wold, 
The  foxglove  trembling  on  its  stem, 

The  gowan  fringed  with  gold ; 
These  faintly  shadow  forth  thy  sweets, 

And,  beauteous  though  they  be, 
They  lack  the  spirit's  loveliness 

Of  winning  Lizzy  Lee. 

I  dream  of  all  our  rambles  o'er 

That  em'rald-swarded  walk, 
Where,  winged,  the  golden  moments  flew 

In  murmur'd  loving  talk ; 


TO  LIZZY.  161 

I  hear  some  gentle  cautions, 

In  a  voice  of  melodic ; 
'Tis  the  guardian  angel  warnings 

Of  the  stainless  Lizzy  Lee. 

I  wander  down  the  garden  path, 

At  twilight's  coming  gloom, 
And  muse  in  pleasant  reveries 

Beside  the  bush  of  broom  ; 
And  sigh  for  some  lone  island 

In  the  far  Pacific  sea, 
Where  my  heav'n  of  bliss  might  centre 

In  the  love  of  Lizzy  Lee. 


11 


MY   SOUL   IS   EVER  WITH  THEE. 

MY  soul  is  ever  with  thee ; 

My  thoughts  are  ever  with  thee ; 
As  the   flower  to  the  sun,  as  the  lamb -to  the 
lea, 

So  turns  my  fond  spirit  to  thee ; 

'  Mid  the  cares  of  the  lingering  day, 

When  troubles  around  me  be, 
In  fancy  for  aye  will  be  flitting  away, — 

Away,  my  beloved,  to  thee. 

When  the  night-pall  has  darkly  spread 

Its  shadows  o'er  tower  and  tree, 
Then  the  visions  of  my  restless  bed 

Are  all,  my  beloved,  of  thee. 

When  I  greet  the  morning  beams  — 
When  the  midnight  star  I  see  — 

Alone — in  crowded  halls  —  my  dreams, 
My  dreams  are  forever  of  thee. 

As  spring  to  the  leafless  spray ; 

As  calm  to  the  surging  sea ; 
To  the  weary,  rest  —  to  the  watcher,  day  — 

So  art  thou,  loved  Mary,  to  me. 


SONG. 

0  WILL  ye  come  down  to  me,  hinny? 

O  will  ye  come  down  to  me,  doo  ? 
For  when  a'  the  lave  are  sound  sleepin,' 

I've  come  o'er  the  muir  to  meet  you. 
The  way  it  was  lanesome  and  eerie, 

The  night  is  baith  rainy  an'  cauld, 
Yet  hope  gar'd  the  muirland  seem  cheery, 

And  love  made  me  blithesome  an'  bauld. 

In  simmer,  when  bairnies  thegither, 

We  roamed  ower  the  gowany  braes, 
Or  wandered  at  will  'mang  the  heather, 

Or  up  the  glen  gaed  pti'in  slaes. 
Ye  mind  frae  the  kirk  o'  Blairgowrie, 

When  comin'  sae  courtly  at  e'en, 
Ye  vow'd  ye  wad  ha'e  nane  but  Lowrie  : 

Now  Lowrie  is  waitin'  for  Jean. 

What  reck  I  for  maidens  o'  tocher? 

What  care  I  for  kith  or  for  kin? 
A  leal  heart  is  a'  I  can  offer, — 

A  leal  heart  is  a'  I  wad  win. 
Then  hoolily  haste  thee  doun,  dawtie, 

0  hoolily  haste  ye  doun,  doo! 
For  were  the  womenkind  a'  single, 

I'd  ha'e  nane,  dear  lassie,  but  you. 


MY  FATHER'S  GRAVE. 

WHERE  is  my  sainted  father's  place  of  rest  ? 
I  fain  would  look  upon  it  —  on  the  turf 
That  wraps  the  hallowed  ashes  of  my  sire. 
Might  I  but  weep,  but  shed  one  filial  drop 
Of  fond  remembrance  o'er  the  sacred  dust 
Which  lies  forgotten  in  the  place  of  graves, 
Without  a  stone  to  mark  it.     What  is  this  ? 
What  see  I  here  ?    A  shapeless  heap  of  mould 
Garnished    with    verdure.      Is    this,  then,  his 

grave  — 
My    father's     grave  —  his    silent,     last,    long 

home,  — 

His  haven  of  repose,  where  the  frail  bark 
Is  safely  moored  from  all  the  ills  of  time  ? 

And   sleeps    he   here,  the    man  who  gave  me 

life; 

The  author  of  my  existence  ?     What  a  throng 
Of  recollections  of  my  early  days 
Crowd    in    upon   my   soul !     Thoughts   of  the 

past 

That  flit  across  my  mind  like  the  dim  forms 
Of  some  forgotten  dream.     In  memory's  eye 


MY  FATHER'S    GRAVE.  165 

I  see  thee  yet,  my  father :   hear  thee  speak, 
And  list  the  firm  deep  music  of  thy  voice, 
When  thou  first  told  me  of  a  heaven  above, 
To   which    the    souls    of   good    men    pass   at 

death ; 

A  God,  the  Maker  of  this  earth,  these  skies, 
And  all  the  living  things  that  breathe  therein  ; 
Of  a  deep  hell  beneath,  —  a  burning  lake 
Of  everlasting  pain,  where  sinners  go 
Who  disobey  their  Maker.     And  I  listened 
In  breathless  silence  to  the  awful  truth, 
And   prayed    thee,  father,  when    thou  went  to 

heaven, 

To  take  me  with  thee.     Then,  O  what  a  look 
Of  heavenly  sweetness  and  parental  love 
Thou    gavest,    while    hanging    o'er    thy    poor 

young  boy, 

As  he  sat,  softly  cradled  in  thy  arms, 
Borne  upon  thy  knee !     But  now  'tis  past  — 
And  thou  art  sleeping  in  the  dreary  land 
Of  dark  forgetfulness  —  voiceless  and  still; 
While  I  stand  here  in  noontide  of  my  youth 
Musing  above  thy  dwelling. 

Alas  !   alas  !   for  human  life,  what  is  it  ? 
A  flower  —  a  breath  —  a  bubble  on  the  stream, 
That  breaks  and  disappears  ;  and  I  that  stand 
Here  in  the  ruddy  glow  of  youth  and  health 
Must,  in  a  few  brief  fleeting  years  at  farthest, 
Repose  me  by  thy  side,  my  sainted  sire, 


166  MY  FATHERS   GRAVE. 

Breathless  —  voiceless  —  torpid  —  silent  —  and 

still,  — 

A  thing  of  nothing  —  a  mere  shred  of  earth, 
Such   as    thou    now    art.     'Tis   a    dark,   dread 

thought 

To  those  who  have  no  paradise  but « earth, — 
No  God  but  Mammon.     But    to  those    whose 

hearts 
And    aims  soar  heavenward,  —  to  the  humble 

few 
Whose    hope    is    anchored    on    the  "  Rock    of 

Ages,"-   _ 

'Tis  a  heart-cheering,  animating  thought, 
Which  comes  like  sunshine  o'er  the  good  man's 

soul, 

Turning  his  grief  to  gladness,  tears  to  joy : 
Because  death  brings  the  harvest  of  his  bliss, 
The  rich,  full  harvest  day  —  the  great  reward 
Of  all  his  troubles ;   and  the  noisome  grave, 
That  quite  annihilates  the  worldling's  joy, 
But  opes  his  passage  into  light  and  life. 


THE  CLOSE.i 

WANING  life  and  weary  ; 

Fainting  heart  and  limb ; 
Darkening  road  and  dreary ; 

Flashing  eye  grown  dim  — 
All  betokening  nightfall  near. 
Day  is  done,  and  rest  is  dear. 

Slowly  stealing  shadows 

Westward  lengthening  still, 
O'er  the  dark  brown  meadows, 

O'er  the  sunlit  hill. 

Gleams  of  golden  glory 

From  the  opening  sky, 
Gild  those  temples  hoary  — 

Kiss  that  closing  eye. 
Now  drops  the  curtain  on  all  wrong  — 
Throes  of  sorrow  —  grief  and  song. 

But  saw  ye  not  the  dying, 
Ere  life  passed  away, 

1  This  poem,  composed  by  the  author  of  this  collection 
during  his  last  illness,  was  found  among  his  papers,  written 
with  a  faltering  hand. 


168  THE   CLOSE. 

Faintly  smile  while  eying 
Yonder  setting  day? 

And,  his  pale  hand  signing 

Man's  redemption  sign, 
Cried,  with  forehead  shining, 

"  Father,  I  am  Thine  ! " 
And  so  to  rest  he  quietly  hath  passed, 
And  sleeps  in  Christ  the  Comforter,  at  last. 


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This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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1869 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGION) 


AA   001  22i 


PS 
3339 

W23A-17 
1869 


